


Brothers in Arms

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2004-12-10
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Another gloomy day dawned at Minas Tirith, thus mirroring the hearts of most of its citizens. The armies of the Enemy had been approaching the White City slowly but surely and, although the Gondorian knights fought them back bravely, there was no stopping them. Soon the dark masses were near the outskirts of the city, leaving nothing but smoke and fire behind. The watchers of Minas Tirith could clearly see them from up the walls, and despair nestled in their souls. In spite of it all, none remained idle. By Lord Denethor's orders, the beacons surrounding the city were lit up, warning of the approaching danger and signalling for any help the allies could send. Meanwhile, almost every woman and child had already evacuated the city and every Gondorian man who could be spared was now at all times clad in armour, ready to defend the city at need.

Beregond stood on duty by his post, watching everyone below go by on his errand. He watched some people working by the walls, thus strengthening them; others sharpening their weapons; others sparing; and others carrying within their carts the remaining civilians away from the city. The only ones to stay inside the city were the women who worked at the Houses of Healing so the wounded could be tended, and a few children, including his own son: they could help out by carrying messages or water and food to the soldiers. 

Suddenly Beregond felt shivers down his spine, yet he knew that it wasn't because of the morning frost. He looked up and saw it. It seemed nothing more than a small black speck in the sky, but Beregond knew better. It was a Black Rider, circling on his winged monster over the city like a buzzard over a wounded animal, watching and waiting until its victim let out its last breath and so swoop for the kill. 

The soldier's hands turned into fists and cursed the black speck under his breath. Not only did these unnatural beings terrorise the defenders of the City with their inhuman screams, they also almost killed Faramir when he was riding back from Ithilien with his scouting party. 

He shuddered at the memory, which was still fresh in his mind. When he had seen the Riders attacking Faramir's party he had rushed forward to defend his captain, yet after a few strides he could not take another step, for he had become too frightened. All he could do was watch on in horror until Gandalf arrived and with his light blinded the winged steeds long enough to guide Faramir and the other men to safety. 

A sigh escaped his lips. Lord Denethor had stated with confidence that the enemy could be defeated, which was true; the soldiers _could_ fight the Orks. But what good would that do, if only a Wizard was their only defence against the terror hovering above? 

_Enough_ , he reprimanded himself. _Do you think Faramir would want to hear you talking like that?_

Beregond's thoughts strayedto his captain, and the burden the man had to carry ever since the tidings of his brother's death reached Minas Tirith. Beregond was aware that Faramir faced the task of two people now and this challenge was not made any easier by Lord Denethor's demands and continuous disapprovals of his actions. Yet seeing Faramir always complying with his duty and his father's orders with no objections filled the soldier with admiration and strove him to outdo himself as well. And Beregond knew he was not the only one to feel this way. He observed how lovingly everyone looked at their Captain whenever Faramir spared some time to lift their spirits with kind words of encouragement.

Nevertheless, Beregond knew also that all men have their limits. He recalled how worn out and shaken Faramir looked when he had returned from Ithilien, not only because of his encounter with the Black Riders. Beregond had wished at that moment with all his heart that Faramir could have at least a day's rest, even if things seemed ill; if the soldiers needed somebody to command them; if civilians needed somebody to look to for guidance; and yes, even if Faramir was the only man who could respond to all these duties. 

But, to Beregond's dismay, the rest he had wished for his Captain was not meant to be. As soon as Faramir had entered the Great Hall, Denethor ordered him to ride out and make one last stand at Osgiliath, the ancient city that lay some miles away from the White City. Thus it was that, only two days after his return, Faramir had to gather new forces and set out again to fight an army that seemed unbeatable. The only thing that comforted Beregond was that Mithrandir and Prince Imrahil would be by Faramir's side, offering their assistance when and where it was needed. 

On the other hand, Beregond couldn't help feeling perplexed about Denethor's behaviour towards his son. After all, he hadn't even given Faramir his blessing before leaving for the battlefield, something that Beregond didn't approve at all. Who would do such a thing to his own flesh and blood? Why would a father be so disappointed at having a son like Faramir, a man that amazingly combined the bravery of the best warriors with the wisdom of the eldest lore masters? 

Beregond sighed sadly, knowing that he was asking for answers in vain. All he knew was that he would never treat Bergil in such a manner and, if by some misfortune he ever did, then he would wish the Valar to strike him dead.

"What do I know anyway? I'm nothing but a soldier. I don't carry the burden of an entire city on my back as Lord Denethor. The death of Boromir cost him enough already."

"Talking to yourself again, Beregond?" asked a cheerful voice out of the blue.

Beregond turned, startled, his hand instinctively grasping his sword. The only thing that he finally did, however, was to let out a small groan. It was only his relief, who was now approaching him with a broad grin that reached from ear to ear.

"It's unwise to sneak up on people like this, Borlas," Beregond warned. "I swear to you, one of these days, I will not be able to control my hand, and then I will have to explain to your wife that she should blame her dear husband's pranks for her becoming a widow."

"Yes, only too true," said Borlas, chuckling. "But then no one would wish to come and relieve a madman who kills for the sole reason that he doesn't like being surprised. In which case you would remain here, all alone, day and night, winter and summer, year after year, until Bergil had children of his own and you grew a white beard long enough to touch the floor – maybe even longer! You can laugh all you want, my good fellow, but I'm only saying the truth!"

"I cannot help it," said Beregond, still laughing mildly at the image that Borlas had so meticulously described. "You are in a very good mood, considering the plight the city is in," he added in wonder.

"And you are in a very serious mood," replied Borlas. "I am only doing what my grandfather would suggest whenever there were times like these to face."

"What would that be?"

"We cannot despair if we know there is hope; and if we see there is none left… Well, death smiles on all of us. All we can do is answer with a smile of our own."

Such words made Beregond shake his head solemnly. "I am afraid there lies the problem, Borlas. No one _knows_ if there is any hope left or not. If we knew, perhaps we would know what to do." Without realising it, he let his gaze drift towards the direction of Osgiliath.

Borlas looked at the same direction, understanding what his comrade's thoughts were.

"Is the son of Baranor the Valiant afraid about the outcome of the battle?"

"No, more likely frustrated that he hasn't heard news of _any_ outcome yet. I assure you, you can throw me amidst the strongest servants of the Enemy and I will fight them, or at least die trying. But I cannot battle my own fears." 

"Come now, it has only been four days since the men set out for Osgiliath. And did not that wizard, Mithrandir, come to the court yesterday, while you were on duty? Surely he had tidings to tell." 

"He only said they are still fighting and nothing more," answered Beregond, correcting his belt and gripping the handle of his sword nervously. He looked again far beyond the border of the city, straining his eyes to see as far away as possible as though in an attempt to see the battle that was raging there.

"And the Captain, too?"

"Hmm?" Beregond remembered himself and turned once more to his fellow guard. "I am sorry, what did you say, Borlas?" 

"I asked you if Captain Faramir is still fighting with them." 

"Yes, at least that is what Mithrandir said. And now, my fellow comrade, you will have to forgive me, but I have been on duty all night and I am so tired that I think I can even hear my bed calling for me. Have a good day."

"Have a good rest, Beregond. May you soon get the news that you so desperately wish to hear!" 

They unsheathed and saluted each other, as it was customary at the change of shifts; then Beregond walked down the stairs to reach the main section of the city and from there the road towards home. He greeted some other guards who were leaving also as their own shift ended, and quickened his pace before he was engaged in conversation again. 

As a matter of fact, Beregond wasn't as tired as he claimed to be. He merely wanted to leave the citadel in order to forget his fears. And now, as he was walking down the road and watched the people go to and fro and the children play, he felt a weight was lifted from his heart. 

Just then, another guard waved at him. Beregond recognized him instantly, like any soldier would upon meeting Maldir. After all, Maldir was the oldest guard in service, the trainer of most of the guards in black and white that served at the citadel and, of course, the sword instructor of the Steward's children. Moreover, he was a man to be marvelled at because, in spite of his age, he still retained the prideful stance and vigour of a man in his prime. It was true that his austere face and strictness at training could be intimidating at first (Beregond still remembered how he trembled under his gaze the first time he had met him), yet he quickly proved a dear man and a good friend. Everyone looked up to him, for he had seen many battles and had grown wise in matters of war. Furthermore, he often told amazing stories of his time as a young soldier whenever he was in the mood. So, Beregond was more than glad to see him.

"Morning, Maldir," he said. "I trust you are well?"

"You doubt that, lad? I can still defeat you and ten more guards like you anytime!" Maldir said good-humouredly. "Are you going at the gates?" 

"No," answered Beregond, "I was actually going home. Why do you ask?"

"You haven't heard then? Oh, but you were on duty till now, how _could_ you?"

"Hear what?"

"The lads have returned from Osgiliath. They're passing the gates as we speak."

"What was the outcome of the battle?" Beregond asked anxiously.

"Not good, I fear," said the old soldier. "The only thing that comforts me is that most of the men have managed to return safely."

"What about Faramir? Has he passed the gates as well? How is he?" Beregond asked again.

"I cannot answer you that, my boy, I only caught a glimpse of the people that were gathered there, learned all that there was to know and now I'm heading to my post! A soldier on duty does not have the luxury to be idle, you know."

"Of course…" replied Beregond, his face turning crimson for having to be reminded of such a simple thing.

Maldir, however, smiled. "You wanted to be with him at the battle, didn't you?" 

"At least then I could make sure that he stayed safe," answered Beregond truthfully, seeing that Maldir still knew the people he trained only too well. Then again, Beregond could never lie to Maldir, for he saw in him the father he had been unfortunate to lose long ago.

"I understand, lad," said the old soldier. "But," he added, his lips tugging to a mischievous smile, "you could have swum the river and dogged the army. You have done it before." 

Beregond let out a small grown of mock annoyance. "I was only a boy then and I didn't know any better! I have already apologized more than enough times for it!"

"I have to remind you that _neither_ of you knew any better!" retorted Maldir teasingly. Then his eyes shone with clear pride. "It is still good to know that you both turned into the fine young men that you are now. And I realize that you can hardly keep still and talk to a babbling old fool when you know Faramir is returning, so I bid you farewell. You may yet see your friend, if you hurry at the gates."

Beregond didn't need to be told twice. After bidding Maldir farewell, he ran at the gates as quickly as his feet would carry him. When he arrived there, he was amazed to see how many people welcomed the troops back, though there was no joy in that gathering. The soldiers looked weary and full of regret. Some of them were even wounded: others lightly and others quite badly. Lastly, it was with a heavy heart that Beregond saw the carts that carried the dead. He knew some of the fallen well and he felt sorry for their sad end. 

Then his gaze drifted everywhere for any sign of Faramir, yet there was none; a troubling thing, since a Captain was supposed to ride with his men, side by side. _Has he already passed then?_ he thought, puzzled. 

Another familiar voice suddenly sounded near him.

"Father! I am glad you could come!" cried Bergil, rushing towards Beregond.

"I am glad too, my boy," said Beregond, kneeling and opening his arms in embrace, happy to find his son among this crowd. "Have you been here long?"

"I was one of the first to come at the gates," answered the boy with a touch of pride.

"So you saw the Captain."

"No, I didn't. He hasn't come yet, and everyone is getting concerned."

"I do not blame them, Bergil. I am getting worried myself," Beregond said. Dark thoughts entered his mind and his eyes darted at the group of the soldiers restlessly. 

_Where is he?_

Then the soldier heard cries of anguish and grief, yet it wasn't that that horrified him the most; it was the single name that was clearly uttered amid them: Faramir. He went as near to the gates as possible to witness for himself what was the meaning of it all, praying to the Valar that it wasn't what he suspected. 

\---------------

Though Bergil had also turned and ran at that sound too, he couldn't see what was happening because of all the people in front of him. What he saw was his father's face turning pale and a look full of sorrow settling in his eyes. 

"Father?" asked the boy, not understanding. "What happened? Can you see Captain Faramir?"

Beregond did not answer. He remained still, watching as if stunned.

"Father?" asked the boy again, deeply troubled. "What is wrong?"

Again Beregond didn't answer. He merely turned, taking Bergil's hand into his own and slowly guiding him toward home. His walk was quite uncertain and a vacant look had settled in his eyes. 

"Father, please!" pleaded the boy, not taking this silence any more. "What did you see? Was it the Captain?"

As though shaken off a dream yet still dazed, Beregond stopped and turned his gaze towards him. He nodded slightly and he uttered a hoarse, almost inaudible: "Yes."

"What did you see?" asked Bergil once more.

"The Captain, being carried by Lord Imrahil on his horse," Beregond answered quietly, his voice raw with emotion. "His face deathly white and, for all the cries of his people, his eyes remaining shut… Bergil," he added, the tears he had been holding back till this moment now being shed without stop, "Faramir, the Captain of Minas Tirith, the last hope of this city and the best of friends that a man like me was ever fortunate to have in his life, fell."

TBC...


	2. A Friend Is Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

Several days passed from the day Faramir returned to Minas Tirith wounded, and matters seemed to go from bad to worse. The captain lay in the Houses of Healing, murmuring in a feverish delirium, in spite of all the healers' efforts to cure him; the enemy kept attacking the walls without mercy, whereas the people's hearts were filled with grief for Faramir and fear for the fate of the city. 

Yet the one who seemed to suffer the most was Lord Denethor. He stayed at his son's side, not caring anymore about the realm's plight or the forces of the Enemy, who placed Minas Tirith under siege. Because of this, Prince Imrahil was forced to assume command of the Gondorian army before it was put in complete disarray. 

Everyone, however, was aware that it was only a matter of time before Minas Tirith finally fell, unless aid came from the lands of Rohan. Thus they turned their heads towards the Home of the Horse-lords, some wondering why the reinforcements hadn't arrived yet, others hoping that the Rohirrim were already on their way to the White City. 

It was during one of those dark days that Beregond had dinner with Bergil, spending thus some time with his son before going to take up his weekly night-shift duty. Bergil talked the most, describing to his father how his day had been, but Beregond hardly paid any attention. He merely nodded from time to time or let out an exclamation of acknowledgement. 

The sound of plates clanging registered in Beregond's mind and showed him that Bergil had finished his meal and was now clearing the table. Instinctively he pushed his plate away in a sign that Bergil should pick that one as well, and rested his head in his hands. He barely noticed the sigh and a small arm across his broad shoulders. 

"Father? You haven't eaten anything. Again."

Beregond turned to Bergil, forcing a smile. "Yes, I have." 

"The plate is still full!" said the boy, clearly frustrated. "Like it was yesterday and the day before!"

"If you look at the water-jug, you will see that it is empty." 

"That only shows that you have had a drink, not that you have eaten anything!" 

"Then perhaps all I wanted was water," said Beregond with a sigh, growing weary of this conversation. 

"Father, please! This can't carry on and you know it!" cried Bergil. "You don't eat; you barely sleep anymore; you become paler and thinner with each passing day, and I can't take it anymore!" Tears sprang up in the boy's eyes and, before Beregond could react, he had embraced his father tightly. "I don't want you to die like the Elves you've told me in your stories!"

Beregond stared at Bergil, stunned. Lost in his own grief for Faramir's condition, he hadn't realised how badly Bergil had become affected. His heart wrenching with guilt, he gently returned the embrace, nestling the boy protectively.

"I will eat something tomorrow," he said softly.

"Or next week perhaps," Bergil said in a hurt manner, his voice coming out muffled. 

"I _will_ eat. I promise." 

Bergil was about to shake his head in doubt but Beregond stopped him and prodded his son to look up at him.

"Have I ever broken a promise to start now?" he asked.

"No," murmured Bergil.

"Then trust me when I say I will eat. Now go finish your chores, I have to get ready for my watch."

Nodding in obedience, yet his sadness still reflected in his eyes, Bergil started clearing the table once more and let his father be.

Beregond walked into his room, and picked up the armour to wear it. While arming himself, he couldn't help but think back on his conversation with Bergil. He had to admit that it was wrong of him to shut the boy out, so Beregond made a silent promise to himself that he would apologise to Bergil afterwards – his son deserved that at least. 

On the other hand, all feelings that Beregond was capable of having ceased to exist a few days ago. All that remained was a void that kept gnawing his heart and dark thoughts of not bearing another loss. Indeed, he would rather die also if Faramir, the man who had been at his side almost all his life, succumbed to the fever that was tormenting him. It was only the thought of Bergil that kept such a consideration at bay. If he acted on his thoughts, what was to become of his son? He didn't want Bergil to go through with what _he_ had when his own father died.

His gaze strayed onto the mirror hanging on the wall across him. He stared at his form reflected there for many long moments and smiled. Because Beregond had been told that, when he put on the armour, he was the spitting image of Baranor, he always took a good look on the mirror before leaving for his duty. In that way, he felt that he was actually looking at his father. It was the best he could do to recall him, for Beregond didn't have many memories of him. As a matter of fact, the only thing that he could remember clearly about his father was his funeral, when he was thirteen years of age; and there was a good reason for it. It had been the first time that he mourned someone, and also the day he first saw the person who was destined to be his best friend. 

People didn't call his father 'valiant' for nothing, even after so many years since his death. A month after Lord Denethor had taken up his position as the new Steward, an assassin, hired from the Corsairs of Umbar, sneaked into the palace and hid in Denethor's chambers, his knife ready at hand. Baranor, however, a member of Denethor's personal escort, proved faster: when the murderer attacked, he unsheathed his sword and placed himself in front of his lord. Though Baranor received the stab wound into his own heart, he also managed to kill the assassin before his strength left him along with his life. 

Thus Baranor earned admiration from the other soldiers, and Lord Denethor, in gratitude for the guard's sacrifice, arranged a most royal funeral for him. Eight soldiers carried the shield on which Baranor lay as he was taken to his last resting place, outside the City; while women, friends of the family, threw flowers at the path of the bearers. Isilme, wife of Baranor and the mother of his children, Iorlas, the eldest of the two sons, and Beregond, followed close behind. 

Young Beregond, however, didn't get to see much of the funeral proceedings, for the adults were either hiding everything with their height or saying it wasn't a sight for "the poor child". There were still people though that went up to Beregond and told him how brave his father was, how proud he should be for him and that no tears should be shed for a man as strong as he was. 

As his father's body was placed in the earth, however, Beregond knew that what people avoided to tell him was that he would never play or go swimming at the river with his father again; he would never hear from his lips tales of ancient Númenor; he would never hear his laughter or his footsteps at the door as he returned from his shift; that his father would not _be_ anymore. What other reason did a child want _to_ weep?

Nevertheless, Beregond tried to follow his mother and brother's example and he didn't cry, wishing to show that he was strong, truly his father's son. But when the ceremony ended and people started walking away, he didn't want to follow his family home yet, for all of Isilme's prodding.

"Just make sure you get back before the sun sets," she said in the end, defeated, and took Iorlas away. Only then did Beregond indulge himself and wept. 

But, lost in his grief, Beregond didn't realise the time passing until the sun was less than an hour from setting. Wiping the tears off his eyes and keeping down his sobs, he set off for home hurriedly, for he knew that the gates closed once night settled in. As he still walked on, he realised, horrified, that he didn't have his brooch any more. 

That brooch, which always decorated his shirt, was a small one, in the colours of the Citadel's Guards, and his father had given it to him on his birthday. It wasn't valuable, yet Beregond cherished it like it was made from the most precious of gems. Its grip had been loose for some time and he had intended to have it fixed the following week, but now it was gone! 

Frustrated, Beregond retraced his steps back towards the grave, always looking restlessly down on the ground in the hopes he would find it. He had almost reached his father's grave, when he lifted his eyes and saw them: two people, standing close to his father's last resting place. Wishing to find out what was the meaning of this without being noticed, Beregond hid behind some bushes and watched on in wonder. 

The pair was most odd indeed. It consisted of a tall, lean old man, his clothing all grey but for his large pointy hat, which was blue; and a young boy, perhaps a little younger than Beregond himself. They appeared to be talking, but Beregond was too far away to hear clearly what they talked about. Whatever it was, Beregond was certain that it had to do with his father. He was ready to step forth and ask for explanations, when suddenly, the boy turned at the grave and said something which Beregond realised it wasn't in any Tongue he had heard before. All he could tell of it was that it was beautiful, the words sounding as though bells were chiming and having this incomprehensible power to lift his spirits. Beregond watched how the old man nodded his approval and took the boy by his hand – and soon they were both gone. 

Beregond stepped out of his hiding place, hardly believing his eyes at what he had just witnessed. He could easily guess who the old man was, because his father often talked to him about a grey-clad man by the name of Gandalf who could perform magic. But it was some days later that he finally found out who the young boy was.

\-------------------

The following week Beregond had to start again his training at the citadel's barracks; it was customary for the sons to follow into their father's footsteps and he was not an exception. Moreover, Beregond dearly wanted to be a soldier like his father, to serve and protect under his lord's commands. He was delighted to have his sword lessons and Maldir often said to Baranor that Beregond was quite good – in fact, the best student he instructed so far beside Boromir, the Steward's firstborn son. 

In spite of all this, Beregond didn't wish to go on that particular day; he _wouldn't_ have gone if his mother hadn't convinced him otherwise, for he had missed too many lessons already and more absences would be considered unacceptable. So it was with a heavy heart that he found himself sparring with Meneldor, another fellow student; while Maldir supervised and made sure that their posture, the position of their feet and the way they gripped their training sword and stroke with it were correct. 

Yet Beregond's mind was not at the sparring; his gaze drifted constantly on a pillar near the entrance of the barracks, hoping that he would see his father again leaning against it, just as he used to whenever Baranor came to watch him training. He didn't care if it was impossible, he didn't even care if he was being unreasonable. He wanted his father there and yet that joy was taken away from him. 

_He should not have died!_

The more he thought of it, the more furious he got. Before realising it, he had grabbed his sword with both hands and his attacks became more brutal. He heard frantic-filled voices telling him to stop, but he didn't listen to them. He kept hitting almost blindly, forgetting who he was fighting and now battling against in his mind's eye phantoms he believed responsible for his father's death.

A sharp blow near his brow crashed him back to reality. Such was his surprise and shock that he let himself fall on his knees, stunned. A pair of hands rested on his shoulders, shaking him slightly and calling his name. He lifted his eyes slowly, seeing that it was Meneldor… and he was trembling.

"I'm sorry," he heard him say as from afar. Was that a small quiver in his voice Beregond could discern? "I didn't mean to, but you kept hitting me."

Beregond tried to speak, but he was still too confused. Just when he thought he had found the strength to apologise, he blinked. Red liquid was covering his left eye. 

"He's bleeding!" exclaimed one of the other boys.

"And quite a lot too!" seconded another one.

"Stand back, boys! Give him some breathing space and keep practising," Beregond heard Maldir say calmly. "Meneldor, let him go. Don't worry, he'll be all right." Beregond felt Meneldor's hands let go of him reluctantly to be replaced by two strong arms, prodding him aside. "Can you hear me, lad?" 

"Yes, sir," answered Beregond.

"Good," Maldir replied; yet Beregond knew he would not get away so easily. "Do you realise what you have just done?"

"Yes, sir," answered Beregond again, swallowing hard.

"No, I don't think you do," Maldir declared. "Meneldor was not the enemy and you treated him like one! You could have easily broken his arm with the force you attacked him if he wasn't quick in defending himself! I like to think I taught you better than that." 

Beregond felt himself shrinking at the rebuke. "I'm sorry," he managed to utter in a murmur. 

Maldir sighed. "I know you are; but you should apologise to Meneldor at the first chance. I'm certain he thinks he did something to you to earn such hate."

Beregond gasped. "He didn't do anything, he's the kindest person I know! I was just…" He stopped.

"Angry," Maldir completed for him. Another sigh escaped the man's lips. "I understand your exasperation, but this reaction won't do. Is that what your father would want from you?"

Beregond shook his head, stopping himself in time before an involuntary sob was heard. Too late he realised that two droplets of tears had trickled down his face, mixing with his blood. 

Maldir's gloved hand gently wiped the face. "You should stop training for today. Have that cut on your brow taken care of and then go home."

"My mother… and Iorlas…" started Beregond softly. 

"I will pass by later to explain to them, all right? Don't fret, lad," Maldir said encouragingly; then went back to his instructing.

Beregond nodded and walked away, yet he didn't go to the healer's house or his home. He simply wandered aimlessly, not caring for the blood that still flowed down his face, until finally he reached some stairs. Feeling emotionally drained, he sat on the first step and remained there, staring at nothing in particular.

"That is a nasty gash," said then a child's voice. 

Beregond turned around, startled. To his surprise, it was the boy that stood over his father's grave a few days ago. On a different day Beregond would have greeted him, introduced himself properly and asked him his name; he would perhaps even try to find out what the boy was doing at the funeral. At that moment, however, he didn't feel up to it.

"I guess it is," he said simply with a shrug.

"You should have it taken care of," the boy noted.

Beregond huffed under his breath at being mothered by a mere child. "Maybe I don't want to have it taken care of," he said, trying to show as much patience as possible.

"Why?" asked the boy then, "Don't you want to get better?"

"No, I don't!" snapped Beregond. "My father was looked after and he still died!" He bit his lip when he saw the boy getting startled. He had done it again! He quickly rose and started walking away, fearing that if he let his anger run away with him again there would be worse consequences. 

"I know about your father and I am sorry he had to die. I understand how painful this must be to you," said then the boy, composed once more.

Beregond stopped. He certainly didn't expect such kind words, not after his behaviour. He appreciated the gesture but… he simply couldn't believe it.

"You cannot understand," he said with a sigh, his back still on the boy. 

The boy approached and brought himself in front of Beregond again. "I lost my mother three months ago and there has not been a single day I have not missed her."

Beregond looked up, feeling for the boy at once. "I'm sorry. It seems we've both lost somebody dear to us." He suddenly stopped, uncertain if he should say the next thing in his mind. "Do you think the pain will ever go away?" he finally asked softly, aware that the boy would probably know of what pain he spoke.

The boy returned the gaze, and Beregond thought for a moment that he could see reflected in his eyes an unusual depth of wisdom for a child that seemed no more than ten years of age.

"No," the boy said. "It will only lessen but it will not go away. But, you know, neither my mother nor your father are really dead – not as long as we remember them with love. At least, that is what Mithrandir says."

"Mithrandir?" echoed Beregond, not really understanding about whom the boy was talking.

"So there you are!" exclaimed another voice out of the blue. 

Beregond turned again and saw the grey-clad man he knew as Gandalf approaching them and stopping in front of the boy, panting slightly. "I am too old to run after you around the place to make you finish your lessons, my boy. You said you would be back in five minutes and it has been half an hour!" 

The boy blushed, embarrassed.

"I am sorry, Mithrandir. I forgot myself watching the training."

"Why am I not surprised?" asked the wizard good-humouredly. "Anyway, I found you now. Let us go! You very well know I have to go to the city's library afterwards and I do not like leaving unfinished business such as Elvish lessons behind me."

"Yes, Mithrandir," said the boy. Beregond, however, noticed that something was clearly in his mind. "Mithrandir… do you mind if the boy here could come with us, so you can look at his brow? I know you can heal it."

Gandalf turned his gaze at Beregond as though he noticed his presence only then. Beregond smiled sheepishly at the piercing look and averted his eyes. 

"What is your name, boy?" asked Gandalf.

Beregond said his name with all the courage he could muster. 

"Well, well, the son of the guard that saved Lord Denethor from the attack on his life, is it not so?" said the wizard thoughtfully. "I suppose you could come then. Besides, that cut needs attention."

Thus it was that Beregond finally came to meet Gandalf, also known as Mithrandir or Grey Pilgrim. Seeing the injury, Gandalf assured Beregond that the gash could be healed, yet he also warned him that the cut was very deep and it would probably leave a scar. Understanding, Beregond let Gandalf tend the gash and clean his face from the blood. At the boy's request, Beregond also stayed at the great room where the Elvish lesson took place. Beregond spent the next hour listening to the words rolling on the boy's tongue in wonder, wishing he could speak that fine language, too. 

When the lesson finished, Gandalf picked up his staff again. "Will you children stay here?" he asked, just before walking out of the door.

"If that is all right with you, Mithrandir," answered the boy swiftly before Beregond spoke.

"That will be fine by me. Just do not stay here too long. I am told that when you stayed here yesterday you were late for supper. The Steward of Gondor should not have to wait for anyone, not even his own son. Well, good day, Faramir."

Beregond felt like somebody hit him with a training sword again. He stared at the boy, agape, finally noticing the resemblance he bore with Boromir, and recalled that Lady Finduilas, the Steward's wife, had died three months ago. Berating himself for not making the connection sooner and for his rudeness, he knelt before Faramir, his eyes locked on the ground.

"My humblest apologies, my lord." 

"Why?" Faramir asked, his surprise evident.

"You're Lord Denethor's son and your servant showed disrespect. Your servant should have known better before addressing himself to you in such manner."

"Stop that!" exclaimed the boy, laughing. "Call yourself 'I'! You're not a slave, why should you talk like one? And call me Faramir; that is what Mithrandir calls me!"

Beregond looked up, hardly believing in such kindness. 

"As you wish… Faramir." 

"I do! Now stand up, that is not what you are here for!" said Faramir, smiling.

"Then what am I here for?" asked Beregond. 

"When I went out to the barracks I was actually looking for you. I found this and I wanted to give it to you."

Faramir took something out of his pocket and handed it to Beregond. To the latter's surprise and joy, it turned out to be his brooch!

"Thank you!" Beregond said, hardly able to contain his excitement, "I was afraid I had lost it for good! But…" he paused, looking at Faramir wonderingly, "how did you know?"

"I am glad to have been of help! As to how I knew, the colours of the brooch are of the Citadel's Guards. Since it had fallen on your father's grave, it was easy to guess the rest," said Faramir, beaming at his cleverness.

Though Beregond knew that he was probably making a fool out of himself now, he couldn't help but keep staring at Faramir in wonder. And before he could help it, the question that had been nagging his mind for the past few days flowed out of his lips.

"My lord… I mean, Faramir. What were you and Mithrandir doing by my father's grave?"

Faramir grew sober again. "I wanted to go. After losing my mother, I did not want to lose my father too; so I was glad that your father saved him. I just wanted to thank him." 

"Was that what you were saying in that strange language back there?"

"Yes. But how did you know that? Were you there?"

Beregond nodded silently. "It was beautiful and thoughtful of you." There was a small pause before he ventured his next question. "Perhaps you could teach me that language?"

Faramir pondered on this for a few moments. "I am still learning Sindarin myself, but I suppose so," he concluded grinning.

Beregond smiled broadly. "Thank you!"

"You are welcome. Come, do you want us to go outside and play? It is such a lovely day!"

Beregond was more than happy to join Faramir in his games. Following him outside, they both played for the remainder of the day, forgetting their grief for their parents, if only for a little while. 

When the sun finally set, a servant came out into the courtyard and called Faramir inside: it was time for dinner. Before Faramir left, however reluctanctly, Beregond stopped him.

"Faramir, will you be coming tomorrow at the barracks?" he asked.

"I am afraid not," Faramir said sadly. Then his face beamed up as he remembered something. "But Mithrandir said that the day after tomorrow he will go see a friend of his and so we will not have any lessons for a while. I can come then!"

"Then perhaps we can meet again. I would be really glad if we did!" said Beregond.

"So would I," said Faramir. 

And with that they parted, each to his home.

TBC...


	3. Adventure and Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

As promised, Beregond and Faramir did indeed meet again after Gandalf's departure, and also the next day and the day after. In fact, they met almost every day, sometimes to play, sometimes for Faramir to teach Beregond the Elven-Tongue; and when Faramir also started training at the barracks, Beregond assisted him in his sword lessons. Soon enough, the two became dear friends and delight in each other's company, and finally came a time when neither of them did anything or went anywhere without the other following.

As the time passed, however, Beregond felt something was disturbing Faramir, and he suspected that Lord Denethor had something to do with it. Beregond often overheard servants saying how harsh the Steward could be at Faramir. On the other hand, he noticed how Faramir wanted to talk about his father less and less and, when he did, the tone he used had a strange tinge of bitterness in it. Beregond wanted to believe that this was just a phase that would soon pass, yet he came to realise that this wasn't the case at all. He was horrified to listen to Faramir saying once that he didn't want to continue his lessons with Mirthrandir, because he didn't want to be a "wizard's pupil" anymore, and it was to Beregond's relief that Gandalf managed to convince his friend not to give up the lessons just yet. 

Still matters didn't improve much, however. So it wasn't long before the Steward's feelings toward Faramir chilled, whereas Faramir was left craving for his father's love.

Three years passed, and Beregond would soon finish his training to become a squire, a position that all trainees had to take up in order to become soldiers upon their coming of age. As for Faramir, he had by then not only mastered his skill with the sword, but also learned to use the bow and arrow; and his lessons with Mithrandir were reaching to their own end.

In early autumn, the first news of turmoil broke out. Orcs were seen prowling in Ithilien, defiling the place with their presence, and some of them were spotted as far inland as Osgiliath. The Gondorian Knights, by orders of Lord Denethor and under the command of Thorongil, a man who had offered his services to Minas Tirith through time, made preparations to set out and drive the Enemy off. Beregond's brother would go as well, being a squire already, something that Beregond loathed, for he didn't wish to see Iorlas leave. He was also certain that Faramir was feeling the same way, since Boromir would go and fight as well. How else could he explain his friend's growing restlessness and distraction, as the day the army would depart for war drew nearer?

But Beregond was about to discover that nothing could be further from the truth. On the day before the army would set out and at the end of their training lessons, Faramir passed by Beregond and slipped something into his hand. Beregond looked down curiously to see what he was holding, to see a piece of parchment written hastily in the Elven-Tongue: 

_"Le darthathon na Geleborn na dhu_ _. Avo pedo an pen."*_

Beregond meant to ask what was the meaning of this, but Faramir was already gone; so there was not much of a choice for him except do what the note asked. He only hoped that neither his mother nor his brother would notice him slipping out of the house at night. 

\---------------------

When the sky was filled with stars, Beregond got out of his house and hurried down the narrow dark streets, feeling his heart beating fast against his chest. It wasn't long before he finally reached the great dead Silver Tree his friend had talked about in his note, but Faramir was nowhere to be seen. Sighing a bit and seeing that there was no option left in him, Beregond rested his back at the withered trunk and waited. After several moments, Faramir finally appeared, seeming nervous and his eyes darting at his surroundings worriedly.

"You were not followed, were you?" Faramir asked Beregond after relaxing his vigilance.

"I didn't know I had to be _that_ careful," answered Beregond, "But no, I don't think anybody did." An uncomfortable silence filled the air, and Beregond was starting to get impatient. "Will you tell me what happened? Why did you desperately want to talk to me in the dead of night at this place?" 

"Tomorrow the knights are leaving for Ithilien," said Faramir 

Beregond glared at his friend in annoyance. "Yes, thank you, I am well aware of that. In fact, it so happens that my brother's among them. So, if it is fine by you, I would like to go back to bed; I wish to wake up at dawn and say goodbye to him without having to yawn every few moments," he said, feeling himself flaring. He immediately turned to walk away before he said anything that he would regret.

"I plan to follow them."

All feelings of anger vanished into thin air. Beregond stopped on his tracks and faced Faramir, stunned. 

"You can't be serious!" he faltered.

"But I am," said Faramir simply. "I want to go to Ithilien, just like Boromir."

"Boromir has come of age!"

"Your brother has not."

"Not as a soldier, no; but he's a squire!"

"I am not going as a soldier either, or to fight for that matter. I just want to see the battle."

Beregond gaped at Faramir, unable to believe what he was hearing. He tried to talk his friend out of his intention. He acknowledged Faramir's skill with weapons, but he reasoned that that would not be enough against the dangers he would have face once leaving the city. Even if Faramir survived, there was the wrath of his father and the penalty for disobeying the city's laws to consider. If he wanted so badly to see a battle, he could stay his heart and wait a few years, when he could go with everyone's blessing. What he was about to do now was folly and he shouldn't even consider it! 

Faramir shook his head. "Father will never let me go, even if I am old enough according to the city's laws; he thinks I am only a wizard's pupil. It is time for me to prove him otherwise and show him how wrong he is about me. I was only hoping that you, of all people, would understand this," he said bitterly.

"Understand what? That you regard war as sightseeing?" Beregond exclaimed. Valar help him, but if there was ever a time that he wished to _beat_ some sense into Faramir, it was there and then. 

"That I am just as brave as Boromir."

"Yes, of course," Beregond said, sarcasm dripping in his every word. "Go and get yourself killed; that will get your father's attention."

Faramir glared at Beregond indignantly. "I only arranged this to tell you what I will do because I didn't want you to worry; nothing more, nothing less. I suppose it was a mistake from my part." And with no other word he turned to disappear into the dark streets. 

Beregond bit his lower lip. Disagreeing or not, Faramir had become his best friend and now it seemed that their friendship was in serious jeopardy. But what was he supposed to do? Before he realised what he was doing, he was running after Faramir.

"Wait!"

Faramir turned, raising an eyebrow. "What?" he asked icily. 

It took only a couple of moments for Beregond to decide what to say. 

"I'll come with you." 

All hard feelings disappeared and Faramir accepted Beregond's offer gladly. They sat down by the roots of the Silver Tree and started making their plans. They agreed that they would meet at the gates two hours after dawn and follow the route that the army would take, which Faramir had already studied on the map. They also agreed that both of them should have their weapons and packs with them, and take a horse in order to move faster in the wilderness beyond. Finally, at Beregond's suggestion, they would leave a note in their rooms in which they would notify their homes what they did. Though Beregond claimed that he suggested that so no one would worry about them missing once they were too far away to be stopped anyway, he in fact hoped that someone would find the notes so that they _would_ be stopped; a secret that he swore to take to his grave. Thus they planned for a long time, until all arrangements were discussed. The moon was already half-way up on the sky by the time they separated.

\---------------------

Everything had gone according to plan. At dawn, Beregond and Faramir said farewell to their brothers and then, fully packed and with the excuse that they would go for a swim by the river, took their horses and went at the gates. Minas Tirith wasn't in alarm to prevent citizens from leaving the city, and it was no exception for the boys either. And so, before the sun had reached up in the sky, both were riding towards the river of Anduin in their travelling clothes and their weapons buckled on their side. Faramir had a small knife, whereas Beregond had his father's sword; he had grown strong enough to wield any sword besides the training ones. Only when the sun was about to disappear on the horizon they decided to have a small rest. They figured they would need all their strength if they were to ride again during the night as they intended. 

Night settled in swiftly, and the moon rose to light the boys' path, enabling them to look for a shallow part of the river. Neither Beregond nor Faramir were too keen on having to get wet, but it couldn't be helped. After the Orc sightings, the bridges had become too well-guarded and so they would be bound to be seen if they attempted to pass through there.

They were still looking for that easy pass across when the horses snorted nervously. Before the boys could understand the reason for this, they heard a noise on their left.

"What was that?" whispered Faramir, guiding his horse close at Beregond's. 

"I don't know," answered Beregond. "All I can say for sure is that it can't be any of the bridge keepers; the closest post is still some distance away from us." 

Even in the blue veil of the night, Beregond could see his friend's eyes shining.

"Let us go and look into it," Faramir suggested, immediately dismounting. 

Beregond let out a small groan. He used his horse as barrier to cut Faramir's way. "It could be an animal looking for food; which means we should let it be on its own way. Can we go now?" 

Faramir looked at him in defiance. "We can go," he said, "as soon as I see the 'animal'." 

Beregond huffed in frustration as he watched Faramir sneaking toward some bushes. He didn't like wandering in the wild like a highwayman when he knew he wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. Yet how could he make Faramir understand that he didn't join in his venture because he was drawn by adventure or to prove his worth by going against the laws? That he simply wanted to make sure his friend stayed safe? Which also meant help him avoid any unnecessary risks? They were already in enough trouble. 

Just then, Faramir signalled to him. Huffing in annoyance again, Beregond dismounted also and sneaked close to his friend.

"Well?" he whispered curtly. "What is it?" 

"Orcs."

Beregond covered his mouth to muffle his gasp of shock and looked towards the shore. To his dismay, Faramir didn't err. Several feet away from them were five of the foul beasts, soaking wet and talking among themselves in the language of Mordor.

"A scouting team," whispered Faramir in Beregond's ear. "They must have swum across the river to look into the realm's defences."

Beregond nodded his agreement, while he was trying to ponder on the next best course of action. 

"The bridge isn't all that far away. We must try to find the guards and warn them," he finally said.

"Do you think they can manage them?" asked Faramir.

"Barely, I'm afraid. There are usually only four guards at this hour. But if they take all five Orcs by surprise…"

"Wait," interrupted Faramir. "Did you say five?"

"I did. Why?"

"There were six before I signalled to you to come. I am sure of it."

Beregond raised an eyebrow in disbelief and counted the Orcs again.

"I still see five."

Faramir counted them also and then faced Beregond, his confusion evident in his eyes. "Where is the other one?" 

Suddenly, both Beregond and Faramir felt sharp claws gripping their shoulders.

"Well, well," hissed a raspy, inhuman voice, "What have we here? It seems two little mice have gotten their little feet in a rat trap!"

The boys cried in horror and tried to wrench themselves free, but it was of no use; the Orc was holding them too tightly, his claws digging painfully on their skin. Things looked ill indeed, when Faramir remembered his knife. In an instant, he drew it from his side and plunged it at the Orc's stomach. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was enough for the Orc to loosen his grip in pain and surprise. Taking advantage of his chance, Beregond drew his sword and pushed it in fear-driven frenzy at their would-be captor's chest. The Orc stared at the boys through his sickly yellow eyes for several moments, stunned; then fell on the ground with a heavy thud.

Silence reigned once again as Beregond and Faramir looked at the Orc's body in both shock and confusion.

"Did… Did we just kill him?" stammered Faramir, his eyes locked on the dark blood that stained the ground. 

"I think so," answered Beregond in a feeble voice, his hand barely holding the sword after exerting himself in such a way. 

Then the cries of the other Orcs sounded through the night. 

"They heard us! We must leave quickly!" cried Beregond. He immediately put the sword in its scabbard and grabbed Faramir from the arm to take him to the horses. 

Faramir didn't seem to pay attention to what his friend was saying though. He simply let himself been driven, his eyes carrying a vacant expression in them. And at one unfortunate moment, his gaze fell on Beregond's arm and face; blood was smeared all over them. In a flash, the memory of the killing penetrated Faramir's mind, making him relive the horror and frighten him out of his wits. The memory was so vivid that it clouded his vision and made him see Beregond as the bloodstained Orc. A scream rushed out of his lips and, pulling himself from Beregond's grip, he ran away to the opposite direction and into the water.

Beregond looked back, stunned at what had just happened; yet he knew there was no time to wonder on it for long. The Orcs could be heard closer and, to make matters worse, the horses had bolted, frightened by the commotion. Cursing under his breath, he did the only thing that was left in him to do: he ran and dived into the water after Faramir. In a matter of moments, he had reached his friend, who was swimming clumsily in his panic, and grabbed him from behind. Faramir was about to scream again, but Beregond covered his mouth and held him tightly.

"It's only me," he whispered in the most soothing tone he could master under the circumstances. "I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. We are safe for the present, but we need to hide. Do you understand me?"

Finally calming down a bit, Faramir nodded his acknowledgment and, before they were seen, they both dived and surfaced again behind some reeds. They stayed there frozen for many long moments, their ears pricked to pick up any sound from the Orcs. A growl sounded only a few feet away from them, making them flinch. Then that growl followed another. The boys' hearts beat rapidly against their chests as they realised it was no use to stay there any longer. The Orcs would soon come too near and then they would be seen.

"We have to swim to the opposite side," Beregond said quietly again near Faramir's ear. "As noiselessly as we can, because they are already hot on our trail; and slowly – we need to save our strength and body heat. If you should feel tired, grab my cloak. I will be able to drag you for a while."

Being too afraid to speak, Faramir simply nodded his head again and followed Beregond obediently. Neither knew for how long they swum, yet for all their paddling, the riverside seemed too near for their comfort.

Suddenly, an inhuman bellow cut the air like a knife and into the boys' hearts.

"They saw us!" exclaimed Faramir, terrified.

"Keep swimming!" answered back Beregond. "If we reach the shore, we will be able to hide."

Thus they swam on, never learning what that cry meant until much later. For the Orcs, still searching for the "warriors" that killed their comrade, were at that time attacked by the bridge keepers who, upon seeing a pair of saddled horses galloping wildly toward them, understood something was amiss. And the cry the boys heard was that of the remaining Orc, soon to be slain also.

Finally, the boys stepped on the opposite shore, their limbs trembling not only because of the long swim but also because the water was icy cold. Being the first to regain his composure, Beregond placed an arm over Faramir's shoulders and rubbed them slightly in the hopes that he could warm him.

"Come on, Faramir, get up." 

"I can't," whispered Faramir, his eyes half-closed. "I'm too tired."

"I know you are, my friend," said Beregond, his teeth chattering as he still felt the cold to his very bones. "But we have to find a place to hide and try to warm ourselves."

"What happened to the pack with the extra clothing?" asked Faramir weakly.

Beregond shook his head. "It was tied on my horse's saddle."

"Then we have to light a fire."

"No, it's too dangerous. Some unfriendly eye might see its flames," argued Beregond. "We'll have to settle with the next best thing. Let us go."

Always rubbing Faramir's shoulders, Beregond led his friend to an islet. He carefully placed him underneath them and then, after finding all the leaves he could find on the ground, he covered him meticulously. Soon, Faramir curled up, feeling cosy as the leaves served as a warm blanket over his shivering body.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank Maldir for telling us a thing or two in surviving during training," said Beregond in an attempt to cheer up Faramir. He picked up a large branch with leaves still attached to it and stood up. "I have to sweep off our tracks and make sure there are no Orcs close to us. You stay completely still till I get back." 

And with that he disappeared in the dark veil of the night. It didn't take long for him to erase whatever signs of their passing were left behind and, after having a quick look at his surroundings, he was pleased to see that there was no sight of any servants of the enemy; so he returned swiftly where Faramir lay. 

"Faramir?" he called. "I'm back."

However, Faramir didn't give any answer. Beregond called his friend again and, when he didn't get a reply again, he looked horrified underneath the islet, ready for the worst. To his relief though, Faramir was merely sleeping heavily. He smiled a bit at the sight. He couldn't blame his friend for dozing off; the whole ordeal proved too much for Beregond too. However, Beregond couldn't go underneath the bushes like Faramir, his body was too big for that. He settled himself by the islet instead, willing to stand guard the whole night in spite of all the weariness he felt.

\--------------------

When Beregond opened his eyes again, he saw a grey world revealed before him as the sun was rising once again… and he realised he had fallen asleep. He couldn't berate himself enough for his foolishness, but he was comforted that at least nothing bad happened. And he had to admit to himself that he needed the rest.

Yet for all his sleep, his eyes felt strangely heavy. His throat was sore and, as if that weren't enough, he also had a throbbing headache that only got worse whenever he moved. Moreover, when he approached Faramir to see if he was still asleep, he found his limbs were aching and weakened; his breathing came out rugged and with difficulty. 

"Faramir? Are you awake?" asked Beregond, his voice coming out hoarse. 

If Faramir hadn't been awake, he certainly woke up at that moment with a gasp. But he quickly relaxed when he realised who it was.

"You scared me! I thought for a moment you were one of… them." He shuddered. 

"I'm sorry," said Beregond guiltily. A chuckle of embarrassment escaped his lips. "I sound like one, I suppose."

Yet Faramir didn't share the humour, for he was now looking concerned at his friend. "Didn't you sleep last night? You look worn out."

"I did," croaked Beregond. A loud cough escaped his lips. "I'm afraid I'm coming down with a cold," he added sheepishly.

Faramir instantly got out of the bushes and placed a hand over Beregond's brow. "You're burning with fever! Lie down, quick."

"I'm all right…" Beregond tried to say, but he couldn't help but comply.

"This is _not_ all right!" cried Faramir, exasperated. As soon as Beregond had lied down, Faramir rushed to the river, tearing a piece of his sleeve. He dived the cloth in the water and then hurried back to place the wet fabric on his friend's brow. "This is not what I wanted! None of this was supposed to happen!" 

At these words Beregond felt strangely embittered. "If you think I'm slowing you down on your quest on following the army, you can go."

"Who cares about the army anymore?!" shouted Faramir, the tears that had been threatening to fall for some time now finally spilling. "In my eagerness to prove my worth to Father, I forgot that there are actually some people who think of me worthy to be their student, their brother or their friend. That should be enough, yet I was ready to throw all this aside and nearly got both of us killed!" 

Beregond's heart softened. Smiling kindly, he took Faramir's hand in his and asked his friend to look at him, something that Faramir did meekly.

"It shouldn't be enough," he said amid his coughs and shivers. "Neither Gandalf's tutoring, nor Boromir's brotherly love, nor my friendship can replace a father. But I like to think that one day your father will see beyond the "wizard's pupil" and cast a glimpse to what we all three of us see already and appreciate it properly. Although," he added, smiling wryly, "I doubt it will be any time near after what we've done."

Faramir nodded his understanding. "I guess we should go back and face whatever is in store for us." 

"Are you certain this is what you want?" Beregond asked.

"Yes. I don't mind being punished, but what about you?"

"I'll manage." Beregond stretched his arm so Faramir would help him up on his feet. He winced a bit to feel his chest hurting as he stood up, but he willed himself not to mind the pain.

"Still, I'm sorry," Faramir said. "I will not allow myself to be so reckless again."

"If you do that, it will be more than enough for me. It's good to have my friend back," Beregond said. He tried to smile, but his head felt like it was floating on its own accord and, before he could control himself, he was falling backwards. But for a pair of arms that grabbed him at the last minute, he would have crashed on the ground. Was that Faramir who was shouting his name and imploring him to stay with him? He sounded from so afar! Beregond struggled back at the surface of his mind, wishing to comply. But, in the end, he found it foolish to fight something that seemed impossible. 

"Forgive me…" 

The last thing he heard as he plunged into darkness of oblivion was Faramir's cries.

TBC...

**Footnotes:**

_*Le darthathon na Geleborn na dhu. Avo pedo an pen._ : I will await you by the Great Silver Tree at night. Don't speak to anyone. (Sindarin)


	4. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

He swallowed hard as the heat still surrounded his body, only to discover that his throat hurt. The pain was such, in fact, that he couldn't help but moan slightly. Suddenly something warm touched his brow and caressed him lovingly. 

"Hold still, my son."

Beregond frowned. _Mother?_ What was going on? He tried to rise and discover the meaning of this, but his body felt heavy and numb. He attempted to open his eyes, and blinding sunbeams hit directly his face, making him shut them again with a grunt. The caress stopped and Beregond heard the sound of curtains being drawn; then the same gentle hand cupped his face affectionately.

"Open them. Don't fret."

Beregond complied, though more cautiously this time. Isilme was indeed by his side, but that was not all. Once his sight adjusted to the light and he looked at his surroundings, he found out that he was in his room. 

"How…?" How did he get there, he tried to say, yet somehow talking seemed like too much of a difficult task.

"The bridge keepers found you and your companion by the riverside. They sent a messenger to Gondor and it wasn't long before a small party brought you back here."

Beregond nodded his understanding; then looked at his mother in wonder. He sighed, knowing what was going on Isilme's mind. She tried to apply reason to, what it seemed in her eyes, her son's madness.

"Mother, I had to do it. Letting Faramir go on his own wasn't an option."

"Even if it meant almost dying?" she said bitterly. "Do you realise that for ten days I've done nothing else but sit by your side, pinning you down with my hands as you thrashed in your fevered dreams? While at night I kept crying myself to sleep, praying you woke up? I was strong at your father's death and I try to be strong while Iorlas is away; but my strength has its limits!" Her voice cracked and she hid her face in her hands, her anguish caught up with her.

Feeling his heart wrenching at the sight, Beregond used all his strength to sit up and embrace her, trying to sooth her down; then caught her hands in his hands and fixed his gaze on her.

"I won't claim I know or even reckon how much you suffered because of me," he said softly. "But, even if I disappoint you by this, I won't say that I wouldn't do it again had I faced the same dilemma once more."

"I believe you, child. You're your father's son," Isilme replied, smiling grimly. "But I fear soon you will have to deal with more than your illness. You know there will be a trial for what you've done."

Beregond nodded. "When will it be held?"

"I do not know. Denethor awaits the knights to return from Ithilien, for he needs Thorongil's advice, like Lord Ecthelion, his father, did. Meanwhile, both you and Faramir are to stay in your rooms, only to get out for the trial. There is something else. Maldir told me that, since neither you nor Faramir has come of age yet, you're to be escorted by guardians who are to help you during the trial. He already offered himself to be yours."

"And who will be Faramir's?" asked Beregond.

"Gandalf the Wizard."

Suddenly, both mother and son heard a knock on the door. It was Mauwin, a friend of Isilme, and she came now with important news to tell. Tidings had arrived from Ithilien that the Orcs were finally defeated and the knights were expected to return in six days' time. Isilme and Beregond exchanged a glance full of meaning when they heard this, for they both understood what that meant: the trial was bound to follow soon enough. Beregond couldn't help thinking what awaited himself and Faramir; he could only hope for the best.

\----------------

The six days passed as in a flash, and on the morning of the seventh day the knights entered the White City. The citizens welcomed the soldiers as heroes and even celebrated for two whole days the victory against the Orcs. Then the festivities ended, and the City returned to its former routine; something that wasn't true for the court though. For the Steward and Thorongil had to set themselves on a different task: to judge the actions of the two boys who dared leave the city in secrecy with the intention of following the Gondorian army.

Everything was arranged quietly. No announcements were made, nor indeed any citizen was to be present during the trial, since it was decided that the matter concerned Lord Denethor most of all – his son was being one of the accused. Thus it was that only seven people were at the Great Hall at the crack of dawn: Lord Denethor, Thorongil, the boys and their appointed guardians, as well as the commander of the bridge-keepers, for his own account was needed also. As it was customary on such occasions, all who were to tell their side of the events were expected to go inside the Hall only when asked, speak of their tale, then answer any questions were addressed to them until they were dismissed once again. When this procedure would come to its end, the judges – the Steward and his advisor – would retire to come to their decisions.

The first one to be questioned was the commander, who told everything he knew. He was on guard with his men by their post, when suddenly they saw two horses galloping in fright towards them. This struck them as odd and so they decided to investigate matters; it was then that they came across a party of Orcs and swiftly did away with them. Suspecting that there could be more of the monsters about, they separated into two separate groups and patrolled the riverside. They searched for many hours, but it was only at dawn that they found at the opposite side of the river a young boy by the side of his companion, whose eyes were closed and his face was pale as a sheet. The young boy, who turned out to the Steward's son, was in a state of shock, fearing that his friend, who was instantly recognised as late Baranor's son, was dead. Baranor's son, however, was alive, if only suffering from severe pneumonia as one of the soldiers, knowledgeable in the healing art, discovered. The children were taken to the camp close to the bridge, where Baranor's son would be treated properly while a messenger travelled to Minas Tirith. Soon enough, a party of soldiers came with Baranor's wife, and took both lads back to the White City. 

And that was where he ended his tale. 

Then it was Beregond's turn to walk into the Hall. As Maldir had advised him, Beregond spoke briefly and truthfully to all the questions he was asked, though Lord Denethor's seemed to pierce his very soul, making him more than a little uncomfortable. Looking at Maldir, who was standing a little further away, and mustering all his courage, he told of everything, starting from the day he received Faramir's note and doing his best not to omit anything. 

Just when he thought he was doing well, he was interrupted.

"You said you encountered six Orcs. The bridge keeper said there were five of them," pointed out Thorongil.

"He was right, sir," replied Beregond. " _We_ killed the sixth one, when he tried to capture us. Faramir made the first stroke and I made the final one."

Thorongil and Maldir were certainly impressed by this, but Denethor's face didn't betray any clear emotion. All he asked was, "Have you any proof of this?"

"None that I can think of, my lord," said Beregond hesitantly. "I can only tell you what happened." 

"And what makes you think _that_ should be enough?" asked Lord Denethor again, looking hard at Beregond.

But this time Beregond didn't flinch; anger was ignited in his soul instead.

"My word as the son of a Gondorian soldier that died to save your life… my lord," he said through clenching teeth. Fleetingly he felt strong fingers curled around his arm and he understood. Maldir was warning him that he was about to take one step too far. 

If Lord Denethor had any intentions to comment on the curtness of Beregond's reply, he never had the chance; Thorongil spoke at that very moment. "My lord, if I may say so; if your son's tale confirms the boy's words, then it is probably that this incident is true."

Beregond locked his gaze on Thorongil, wishing to express his thanks to the man for offering his help. And as he still looked at Thorongil, he began to understand why it was that he heard so many soldiers talk about him with such admiration and even fondness. His calm stance; his confident voice; his whole demeanour, in fact, revealed far more nobility than Denethor's, without the estrangement the Steward seemed to have with the small folk. His eyes drifted on Lord Denethor, and in wonder he realised that apparently the Steward was aware of it too; he kept regarding Thorongil with what could only be labelled as resentment.

"Very well," said then Lord Denethor, cutting into Beregond's train of thought. "You may proceed with your narrative, Baranor's son."

\----------------

Beregond huffed again and fingered his brooch nervously. Faramir had been in the Hall for half an hour now and that was making him nervous. What was happening in there? 

"They're probably asking Faramir about that Orc you killed," said Maldir, who was sitting next to him; "something that probably would have been avoided if you had controlled your temper."

"My temper?" said Beregond incredulously. "Lord Denethor doubted my word, Maldir!"

" _You_ doubted the way he rules," said Maldir, his face growing stern. "Did it ever occur to you that, if Lord Denethor was certain your tale was false, he wouldn't bother asking any questions in the first place? He wanted to find the truth, like any good judge should."

"But I didn't lie about anything! It was one of the first rules you taught us in training: don't even trick Orcs with falsehood, for it doesn't make you any better than them."

"And there is a law saying that, in times of war, no citizen is to venture far from the city's walls. You didn't obey that one though, did you?"

Beregond was about to protest, but no word came out of his lips. He only closed his mouth again, shaking his head. He knew Maldir was right. 

"I didn't want this," he said sadly.

"I know you didn't, lad," said Maldir, placing an arm over Beregond's shoulder. "Your mother explained everything," he said, answering his trainee's puzzled look. 

"You're not angry with me then?" 

"No, not angry. Disappointed, more likely," admitted the old soldier. "Don't get me wrong, your loyalty is admirable and it means you'll become a fine soldier one day. But if protecting Faramir from harm meant so much to you, you could have easily spoken to me and told me about it. Though Faramir didn't wish to listen to you, _I_ would know what to say to him to stop him from such madness that his young heart encouraged him to do. Do you have so little faith in me?"

"That would feel like betraying his trust," said Beregond. "But I talked him into writing a note," he added lamely.

"That was hardly helpful, was it?" 

Beregond sighed and bowed his head. "I guess it's difficult doing the right thing, isn't it?"

Maldir smiled a bit and nudged Beregond to look up at him.

"It _is_ difficult, lad; but there is a little secret that might prove helpful to you in the future. Care to know it?" he said in a confidential tone.

"Please," answered Beregond, his eyes shining expectantly.

Maldir darted his eyes at every direction, as though afraid that somebody would hear him; then leaned close to Beregond.

"There is no such thing as a right thing," he whispered. 

Beregond gaped. Maldir, of all people, was saying that?!

Maldir nodded, confirming his words. "For the right thing is different in every person, and it resides here," he continued, pointing at Beregond's forehead; "and here." He pointed at the boy's heart. " _They_ are your best guides. You have some good instincts that already point you to the correct direction of what a soldier really should be, Beregond; though perhaps still faulty at times because of inexperience and recklessness." He smiled at the slight tease; then sobered again. "But as you grow older and wiser, there will come a day that they will lead you without much error." 

"Even if it means I will have to oppose those I'm to obey as a soldier?" asked Beregond, feeling more confused than ever.

"Only if it means that you will have to obey at the expense of your conscience and your soul. Those are in _your_ keeping alone. For a soldier, like every mortal, does not answer to kings or stewards in the end; but to something far more powerful and wise. And once there, at the end of the great journey beyond, lad, words like 'But I was told by others to do this' won't suffice. Remember that."

Beregond nodded slightly, such words clearly setting him thinking; then spoke again.

"What do you think will happen to me and Faramir now?"

The old soldier sighed in answer.

"I honestly can't tell, lad. There was never an incident like this before, at least none that even the eldest of the elders can remember. But, I like to think that, despite what you've done, your young age and the fact that you were turning back to face the consequences works to your benefit. Thorongil will see to that. He's a good man, as you have already noticed."

"I have. And I hope you're right."

Just then, the door opened and Faramir came out, accompanied by Gandalf. Though his friend's face seemed calm and passive, Beregond noticed how tightly clenched his fists were. He was about to rise and comfort him, but Gandalf stopped him with a discreet, meaningful look. So Beregond remained still, understanding. Faramir shouldn't think that he was pitied, otherwise matters could get worse. 

Faramir didn't say anything. He merely sat down next to Beregond, his eyes locked stubbornly on the ground. As for Maldir and Gandalf, they took a few steps away to let them be for a few moments, something that Beregond appreciated. He waited some more, hoping that Faramir would speak first, but it was of no use. In the end, the silence grew so heavy on him that he decided he couldn't take it anymore.

"Well, what happened?" 

Faramir heaved a sigh. "I told him everything. He especially wanted to know about the Orc we killed."

"Your father?"

"No, Thorongil," faltered Faramir. Too late did he bite his lower lip to stop himself from sobbing; he quickly hid his face in his hands. "Father didn't seem to care enough to even look at me."

"I'm sorry," said Beregond.

"No, _I_ am sorry," exclaimed Faramir, instantly looking up. The tears he had been holding back finally flooded out. "I not only failed him, I failed Gandalf; I failed Boromir; I even failed you! I…" He stopped midway and averted his eyes in shame. "If you do not want to talk to me after that, I will understand."

Beregond stared at his friend in shock.

"I wasn't disappointed before, but I'm now! I thought you knew me better than that! We _both_ got ourselves in this mess, remember?"

"You followed so you would look after me!" said Faramir. "You think I don't understand that now? If I hadn't…" 

"So you are saying that _you_ will take the blame even for choices _I_ alone made?" interrupted Beregond, and prodded Faramir to look at him. " _I_ was the one who had a bad feeling about our venture; _I_ was the one who should have done something about it. Because _I'm_ the oldest and _I_ should have known better!" He paused, feeling his indignation ebbing away. "Frankly, I would prefer neither of us had to go through this, but we did. And, believe it or not, I'm glad that things turned out the way they did. Now we can stand by each other, just like the heroes Gandalf used to tell us about; like brothers-in-arms." 

Faramir listened to Beregond, almost mesmerised, his eyes reddened because of his tears, but his gratitude still shining through them. He clasped his hand on Beregond's shoulder.

"Thank you, best of friends. You know something though? We are not only just _like_ brothers-in-arms; for, I swear to you, whatever happens, I will never abandon you. Not now, not ever."

"Nor I you," replied Beregond, smiling broadly and clasping his own hand on Faramir's, thus sealing their vow. Neither of the boys noticed Gandalf and Maldir watching them and smiling as they realised that they weren't looking on boys anymore, but young men.

\---------------

An hour passed, and the boys and their guardians were asked to go into the Great Hall again to listen to the Steward's decision. Beregond and Faramir exchanged a look, confirming that they were there for each other; then walked in to see that Lord Denethor and Thorongil were already each in his own position, looking at the boys gravely. 

In a matter of moments, Denethor arose and spoke.

"We had before us a very difficult decision to make, since our laws do not predict punishment for offenders of such a young age. Should that mean that they should not be punished? No. As a matter of fact, because of their heritage," and at that he looked sternly at Faramir, "they should be punished all the more; for they should set an example on the city, yet failed to do so. 

"However, as Captain Thorongil pointed out, such a violent experience that almost led to the death of one of you should be enough punishment. I agree to that, but only to some extent. I can't fail to notice that, because of one's desire for adventure, he dragged the other as well, leading thus to this unfortunate and undesirable chain of events. Despite whatever reassurances, I am afraid this sort of thing is bound to happen again, unless something is done about it. Because of this, I am going to have to ask from the boys not to see each other ever again. They will be placed in different training groups as of tomorrow."

Beregond gaped, hardly believing his ears at what he had just heard. He looked at Faramir's face and he saw that his friend was just as stunned. He turned to Lord Denethor, wishing to cry out his outrage, but he stopped himself at the last moment. Maldir's words still echoed in his mind; he had no right to question openly the Steward. Instead he was ready to plead his lord to reconsider his decision and not separate him from his best friend, for the thought seemed unbearable. 

It was to no avail. The Steward had already left the room. 

All was not lost to Beregond yet though. Just then, the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of Thorongil, still on his seat, shaking his head solemnly.

"My lord," he said, rushing toward him, followed closely behind by Faramir, "what are we to do now?"

"I am afraid nothing but comply. A Steward's word cannot be denied by any man but the king himself," answered Thorongil, his stormy grey eyes clearly showing his regret.

"But, sir," cried Faramir in frustration, "what about our friendship?"

They both looked pleadingly at the three men, wishing to hear an answer, any kind of encouraging answer; while Thorongil, Gandalf and Maldir, looked at them sadly, wishing to give them something to hope for. Finally, after a long pause which seemed to last an eternity, it was Gandalf who gave the answer.

"You will find a way."

And he was right. They did find a way.

TBC... 


	5. Clouds Gather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

8 years later

Minas Tirith was peaceful on that cold winter night. There was hardly a mouse stirring in the entire city, and one would only be able to see the occasional citizen rushing in the warmth of his home. Everything was frozen, from the snow on the ground to the water that was hanging from the rooftops in the form of crystal icicles. 

That is, except for the breath that escaped the lips of the young soldier who stood on duty by the city's walls. 

Beregond stomped his feet to wake them from the numbing cold and pulled his cloak closer around him, but still the biting chillness of the wind penetrated his armour, making his body shiver. He looked up at the star-embroidered sky and felt grateful that at least it didn't snow. He didn't like the cold at all, not ever since he almost died because of it. More importantly, he didn't wish to go through such an ordeal again. Yet, to his dismay, with this kind of weather tonight, that kind of a possibility didn't seem all that far-fetched.

"Goodnight, Beregond," cried a human figure as it passed hurriedly by the young guard.

"Goodnight, Indor," answered he, and then was left alone again. He waited for a little while, trying to listen carefully to any kind of sound; then he stomped his leg again, though this time in impatience. "Where could he be?" he murmured under his breath. 

Just then, the sound of a new series of steps came at his direction, and Beregond hopefully turned to the figure that approached. Yet what the young soldier saw clearly was the stooping, rag-clothed beggar, asking in his mumbling, quiet tone for any kind of offering. 

That pitiable sight of a man had been coming out at this time of night for the past several years, greeting every soldier that happened to be patrolling or standing guard in the streets then. And, accustomed to his presence, the soldiers had become acquainted with him and even exchanged a few friendly words with him from time to time. Because of this, no one who chanced to be around at that moment would feel wonder at how cordially Beregond greeted the beggar.

"Evenin' to ya as well, Master Beregond," replied he, a big smile cracking on his soot-covered face. "My, 'tis quite nippy tonight! Oi'd run 'ome to my misses, if oi were ya; Or to a cosy lil' pub where oi could treat a friend an ale or two!"

Beregond chuckled at the filthy form's subtle, yet very clear request.

"Trust me when I say this, I'd prefer to be anywhere but here at this moment; yet I'm afraid it's not up to me alone." he said politely. "I'm waiting for my relief."

The beggar's smile only widened at this.

"No worries, my fella! Oi'll just wait around the corner for ya," he said, winking. And with that, he disappeared into the blue veil of the night. Beregond was still looking at the direction the beggar had taken, when he heard hurried steps and panting behind him.

"It was high time you arrived, Meneldor," he said. He turned his head and faced his fellow comrade in mock annoyance, while the latter tried to catch his breath.

"My apologies," wheezed Meneldor. "Rían insisted I should eat well and get myself an extra cloak, otherwise I wasn't to go anywhere out of the house."

"It's nice being married, I see," noted Beregond with a small smirk.

"Yes, well, I haven't regretted it, if that's what you're suggesting," said Meneldor with a laugh. He nudged Beregond's ribs playfully. "How about you? Did you find something interesting for yourself? Or have you decided to remain free as a bird unlike the rest of us?"

Beregond chuckled. "I think I will let you wonder a little while longer on that," he answered teasingly. 

"Does that mean that there _is_ a chance for the ever elusive Baranor's son to be caught in the nets of love?" said Meneldor jokingly.

Beregond's answer was a swat on his friend's arm. "Like I would ever tell you if there were! Then the whole army would know about it!" He smiled as a small pause followed and his voice became more serious. "If I find anything, you'll be one of the first to know." 

"I'll hold you to your word," said Meneldor with a broad grin. "So be careful what you promise."

Beregond laughed once again. "Well, it's time for me to go and leave you on your guard. Bye for now, Meneldor." He unsheathed his sword and saluted; Meneldor answered it with a salute of a sword of his own, and after this typical display of their weapons, they parted.

\------------------

The beggar had indeed waited for Beregond, true to his word; so the guard arrived with company at "The Full Moon", one of the many inns that were situated only a few streets away. Beregond sat at one of the tables that were close to the wall so that he could rest his back against it, while his ragged companion started circulating among the few people that happened to be there. Beregond watched the beggar closely as the latter shared with them a drink or a funny story, or even any piece of interesting news from the city or the outside world in general. Yet that wasn't the only thing that kept catching his attention, for there was also the same presence that made Beregond return at the same inn again and again whenever his duty ended.

He had met Almiel six months ago in a hot summer evening. Being a servant girl working at the inn, she was at her usual chores when she glimpsed outside the window and saw him and his comrades on duty. She took pity on them as the heat made their armours like blazing furnaces, so she went downstairs with a bucket full of water and a few cups in order to hand to each his own share of the clear liquid. Beregond was grateful for her kindness; yet, when she went up to him and offered him his own cup, he couldn't help himself but also feel something different about her. He had come across beautiful women before and, as a matter of fact, she seemed even plain compared to some of them. The more he looked at her though, the more precious she seemed to his eyes. Everything else simply seized to exist. And whenever he saw her smile, he wished nothing else than to take her in his arms and never let her go; for indeed then she seemed like a gift from the Valar to save him from the very depths of Evil's darkness. Even now, after all this time, she still shone brightly in his mind's eye as he watched her graceful and slender form walking around the half-lit room.

At that moment though, Beregond saw something else that made him huff in dismay. In one of the darkest corners of the tavern there were three people that the guard instantly recognised as Easterlings. 

In older times, these people would never be accepted inside the City's walls. After all, there was always enmity and contempt between the people of Gondor and of the East, for the latter were Sauron's loyal servants. Yet Sauron was destroyed a very long time ago, whereas the Easterlings didn't seem to recover from their own defeat and the Gondorians were able to prove their superiority in more than several skirmishes. Thus it was that in time a tolerance grew between the races, if only a grudging one and ready to dissolve into thin air at the first opportunity. Besides, the guards had made certain that these three stayed out of trouble by confiscating their weapons at the entrance gate, after telling them they could claim them back upon their departure – something Beregond actually was looking forward to.

But Beregond was destined to discover that trouble with the Easterling's wouldn't be avoided after all, for at that moment he saw the beggar approaching them and the Easterlings giving him quite the irritated looks. He looked around to see if anyone was witnessing this, only to realise that the last group of people in the tavern had already departed – and they were the innkeeper and his wife no less! The only ones in the pub were Almiel, left there to run things, himself, the beggar and the Easterlings. 

Despite that, Beregond didn't lose heart. He leant forward instead, his senses and his body on the alert, for anything that might happen. 

He didn't have to wait long.

"Beggin' yer pardon, my good sirs," said the beggar apologetically and friendly, "Per'aps ya could spare a coin for a poor 'ungry man like me?"

The Easterlings didn't speak for several moments; then one of them, the youngest of the three, stood up in front of the beggar's form.

"Why, of course," he said, mockingly; "but first, let me get you a drink." And suddenly he poured his mug all over the beggar's head. "Now clear off, you waste!" he declared, shoving him away. So great was his force that the beggar fell flat on the floor.

Beregond clenched his jaw when he saw such treatment. His hand reached instantly for his sword and he would have certainly attacked there and then if he didn't see the beggar make a slight, shaky movement with his hand. 

Almiel, however, was willing enough to take matters into her own hands. She rushed to the beggar's side, glaring defiantly at the Easterlings.

"A simple 'No' would have been enough!" she cried angrily. "Let him be and get out, all of you!"

"No, if you don't mind, I think we'll just stay a little bit longer, won't we lads?" said the Easterling, hardly being daunted. The other two men laughed in agreement.

"I said out!" cried Almiel. She looked at Beregond pleadingly, but the guard still remained in place. 

That was something that didn't escape the Easterling's attention. He jeered at Almiel.

"Or what? The shiny one there will save you? Looks to me like that coward is waiting to be saved by you!"

Beregond's eyes threw daggers at the insolent brute, but this hardly revealed the deep and terrible rage he felt within him. He glanced at Almiel; then at the beggar; and stepped forward.

"You may consider me a coward for not standing up to you. But _I_ consider you a fool for believing picking on persons you _know_ cannot fight you back makes you braver than me," he said.

The Easterling faced him, his eyes revealing nothing but contempt.

"Now we're talking tough, eh? Let's see how well you squeak, too!" he said, clenching his hands into fists.

"Bold words for a filthy Orc-son of Mordor," replied Beregond challengingly, preparing himself for the attack.

"Are you going to call me _that_?" 

"I already have."

It was in this moment that the Easterling attacked; his fist never made contact though. Beregond was ready for it and evaded it with a quick move aside. Beregond's fist however fell straight on the Easterling's stomach, making his adversary fall on his knees, gasping for air. 

At this, the other two Easterlings lunged at the guard, and though Almiel tried to stop one of them, she was thrown aside next to the beggar.

"Run for help!" cried he and immediately rushed at Beregond's help. He never noticed Almiel watching him puzzled, wondering at how the weak and quivering beggar she was trying to protect was suddenly full of life and powerful enough to knock an Easterling unconscious with a few swift blows; then remembering herself and running outside. 

Meanwhile, Beregond had problems of his own. As he was fighting back the third Easterling, the one who started the fight rose and grabbed him from behind. Before Beregond could react, he felt his hands held back and a fist hit him squarely on his cheek. He tried to defend himself by kicking, but it was of no use. Fortunately for him, the beggar arrived on time and threw himself at Beregond's assailant before the latter managed another hit. Seeing his chance, Beregond immediately tossed his head back, thus hitting the Easterling on his chin. As soon as his opponent's grip loosened at the impact, the soldier tore himself free and, taking into both his hands the Easterling's arm, he flung him on the wall, rendering him senseless. Relieved and ready to fight some more, Beregond turned instantly to help the beggar. 

It was unnecessary. The beggar was fine and standing over the last Easterling's unconscious form.

It was then that the patrol arrived, followed by Almiel. After seeing the mess in the inn and receiving a quick sketch of what happened by both Beregond and the beggar, the commander of the patrol ordered his men to take the Easterlings away: they were to be taken into the dungeons for the night and to be escorted outside the City first thing in the morning. With that done, he was ready to follow his men and see that justice was done properly.

Yet it was clear that something was bothering him. He stood by the doorstep for a few moments, his face chiselled into a frown; then finally took Beregond aside. 

"You know something, soldier? I need you to explain something to me," he whispered at him in confidence.

"What, sir?" asked the guard apprehensively.

"You might have had help from the beggar, as you say. My question is, what sort of help could _he_ offer at his state?" said the commander, pointing at the stooping and mumbling man.

"They were fairly drunk, sir. Anyone could have managed them," Beregond answered at once.

"Drunk and yet still able to do _this_?" asked the commander, his gaze locked on the guard's bruised and swollen cheek. "Is there something you're not telling me, soldier?"

Beregond returned the gaze without as much as flinching. "No, there isn't, sir." 

A sigh was all that showed to Beregond the commander's resignation. 

"Very well. That will be all then. Have a good night." And he went out. 

As soon as the commander of the patrol left, Beregond turned to Almiel, who was trying to put everything back in order. She wasn't looking at him or the beggar and her expression was sad, the soldier could see that only too clearly. Beregond's heart sank as the probability that she was angry with him too occurred to him. He didn't care that he was actually fearing a woman's wrath when he could throw himself amongst the fiercest of the Orcs with not so much as a second thought. He didn't want her angry with him, he simply didn't. He knew that _that_ would get him hurt far worse than any wounds the servants of the Enemy would inflict on him. 

Yet he couldn't stand watching her like this and do nothing about it either. Approaching meekly, he placed his hands on the chair Almiel was about to pick up. 

She looked up at him. She was certainly surprised. And Beregond caught himself staring in her eyes and losing himself in her brown depths. He kicked himself mentally in the hopes that he would finally find the courage to say something, anything.

He did open his mouth, something that was commendable of him under the circumstances. Before any words could come out of his lips though, he felt a lump forming in his throat and he quickly averted his eyes. He only picked up the chair and put it back in its place, not looking at her. 

"We'll 'elp ya clean up," offered the beggar to Almiel, getting Beregond out of the embarrassing situation. His gaze momentarily drifted on Beregond's form, and a ghost of an encouraging smile appeared on his lips. "An' I'm sure my friend 'ere will be mer than 'appy to pay for any damages."

Beregond stared at the beggar for a moment, his own turn to be surprised. Then, understanding, he nodded at Almiel, confirming the beggar's words.

Almiel smiled as well, relieved. "Thank you both. Though the innkeeper wouldn't be angry with me for this, I care for him enough not to see him upset." 

Suddenly she did something that Beregond hardly expected. She turned to him and touched his swollen cheek. "As for you," she said kindly, "you will have to let me take care of your face afterwards." She added with a slight tease: "Without argument, if you can help it."

It took them a while, but the place was finally in order. In thanks, Almiel prepared some cold meat for the beggar; and while he was eating, she placed a cloth damped in cold water on Beregond's abused cheek.

"Thank you," was all Beregond murmured. He still averted his eyes.

"Why aren't you looking at me?" she asked. 

Beregond's heart missed a beat. Was it merely a mind's trick, or did Almiel really sound sad about this? 

"I'm not sure," he finally said, deciding to be honest. "I suppose, I didn't think you would want me to after what happened. I mean, I didn't run immediately at your aid and…" 

He fell silent. He was certain he was making himself a fool. 

However, she only smiled and turned his head gently to face her.

"What matters is that you finally did. _Better late than never_ , isn't that what the wise say? So don't worry, no real harm was done."

"Tell that to my face," joked the Gondorian. The spontaneous comment actually caused them both to laugh a bit; yet Almiel was quite earnest when she took off from her neck a cord onto which was attached a small amber stone.

"This might protect you from any other harm. I found it by the river's shore long ago and kept it with me since for good luck," she said. "And it has brought me luck - especially the past six months," she added, looking straight into his eyes.

Beregond took the pendant in his hand and looked back at her. Was she actually saying…?

He opened his mouth to speak, but he never had the chance to ask the question. At that instant her lips touched his own delicately. 

His heart instantly felt like it jumped out of its place. He had hoped for a kiss ever since he met her, but he certainly never expected it after what happened. Such was his loss and confusion that he remained looking at her in surprise even after the kiss ended, hardly able to decide what to do next. And why was he suddenly feeling so hot in the face?

"You're blushing," she noted, smiling. 

He was?! 

"N-no, I'm not," he stammered. 

_No, I'm not?!_ he thought exasperatingly. What was he, a child again, verbally sparring with Iorlas?! Surely he had far more graceful things to tell a woman! 

"Well, I…"

Just then he noticed the beggar walking out of the door. 

"… had better be going," he concluded. He cringed at how cold that must have sounded. 

Almiel's smile slightly faded. It _had_ sounded cold.

"As you wish. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Beregond replied, and took a few reluctant steps away. At the next moment, he rushed back and sealed their lips together once more, this time with all the passion he felt for her finally waking out of its lethargy. Valar, he never thought something so simple as a kiss could make his heart feel so warm with bliss! 

Yet he couldn't stay, no matter how much he wanted to. And so, after forcing himself to break that spell, he went outside to join the beggar. 

\------------------

He was watching him, Beregond could tell that quite clearly. He could feel the teasing smile aimed at him even now that he was avoiding the beggar's look.

"Stop looking at me like that!" he warned his ragged comrade as they were walking down a deserted alley.

"Like what?" asked he with a huge innocent grin.

"That!"

"Why?" 

Beregond stopped himself to consider things to finally answer, "Because."

"My, what a perfectly good reason!" said Faramir with a laugh; then nudged Beregond playfully. "At least I now know why for the last several months you always insisted that we should go to _that_ inn from the hundreds that are spread out across the city."

"What can I say, my secret's been discovered. Have mercy, my lord," said Beregond with a mischievous smile and a big bow.

"Do not call me like that!" exclaimed Faramir, his turn to warn his friend.

"As you wish… my lord."

This time the answer came into a form of a snowball, which landed on the guard's head as he was bowing again.

"I did warn you," said Faramir laughing. He quickly sidestepped to avoid a snowball that was flying now toward him, but without success.

"Revenge is mine!" declared Beregond, smiling broadly.

"Not for long!" cried the Steward's son, and charged at his friend. And while their clear laughter reached up to the sky, they continued playing in the snow, just like when they were children. Finally, they dropped on the ground, still laughing and breathing heavily.

"We should rise soon," suggested Baranor's son after a few moments of silence, "before we will be missed."

"You are right. We lost too much time at the inn already, what with those foolish Easterlings and everything."

"Which brings us to something I meant to ask," said the guard, helping Faramir to his feet. "Why did you wait so long to signal to me that I could confront them?"

"I wanted to prove myself wrong about something."

"And that would be?"

Faramir kicked some snow while walking, troubled. "I have been hearing some disturbing rumours that only grow stronger at my every outing in this guise: whispers of a shadow rising in the east and covering everything in darkness. I fear the Great Evil that our ancestors dreaded so long ago is coming back and his servants know it; that is why they became so daring. I was just hoping that things were not that bad just as yet," He looked up at the sky and heaved a tired sigh. "The world is changing, Beregond. Mark my words, we will soon be caught in the middle of a storm so terrible that it will sweep everything, leaving no trace of the city as you and I know it."

Beregond could hardly believe that such ominous words came out of his friend's mouth. This would not do and he knew it.

"I wouldn't be that worried if I were you," he said. "You know how rumours are: always making a mountain out of a molehill. After all, Sauron was destroyed more than three thousand years ago! And if he _is_ coming back, he can't possibly have the strength he had back then!"

"I wish I had your confidence, my friend," said Faramir. "But, believe me, something is certainly amiss; Gandalf is getting restless too. His journeys last far longer now and at the rare occasions that he comes within the city's walls, he spends all his time in the library. I am sure he knows about Sauron's return, and he is trying to find in the manuscripts answers in questions concerning the Dark Lord - who knows, maybe even a way to be stopped. Yet I am afraid in the end that the conflict will not be avoided."

"Perhaps. But I like to think that, since the Dark Lord was beaten in the past, he can be beaten again," argued Beregond. "So, when he strikes, we will do what we have to do: fight back and make sure that, if death is to claim us, it won't be in vain."

"Always thinking like a soldier!" exclaimed Faramir good-humouredly. "You are correct though: we will do that. Remember though, if half the stories Gandalf told us about Sauron are true, then mere fighting will not be enough. We will have to find a different path to win; we, or somebody else."

At that moment, they reached a point were the street split in two.

"Well, this is where we go on our ways. Shall we meet again, same time tomorrow?" asked the Steward's son.

"All right. Who knows, you might overhear some good news tomorrow," said the soldier encouragingly.

Faramir forced a small smile on his lips. "Maybe. Well, goodnight, Beregond… or, rather, good morning."

"Good morning to you too, Faramir!" chuckled Beregond. 

And with that, they each hurried at his home, just when the first grey shades of morning appeared on the horizon. 

TBC...


	6. Love and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

Several weeks passed and it the incident with the Easterlings belonged now to the past of Beregond and Faramir. Yet for all the time that passed, Beregond was still thoughtful and absent-minded, and no matter how many times Faramir tried to make his friend confide in him, realising that there was something troubling the young guard, Beregond wouldn't open up. He simply kept answering that nothing was wrong whatsoever, which wasn't a lie. But still, Beregond had to consider over some things about himself and a certain other, and he didn't feel anyone could help him in this case; not even Faramir, in spite of the years of friendship they shared.

Finally, however, Beregond decided that he couldn't Faramir in the dark any longer. On one of the early spring nights, when Faramir came in his guise at Beregond's post, the soldier suggested that they should go somewhere quiet and talk for a while. 

Though clearly surprised, Steward's son accepted without objection. Soon enough, they had reached the Great Silver Tree, the meeting point of their childhood.

"Well?" asked Faramir, resting his back on the silver bark. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"Almiel," answered the guard. "Do you remember her?"

Faramir grinned broadly. "How could I forget her? The sweet little thing that won my best friend's heart is not something to be forgotten; especially since they both meet almost every day ever since that night at the inn!" he answered. "What of her then?"

It actually took a few great breaths for Beregond to finally speak. 

"I want to marry her."

Faramir laughed a bit. "Congratulations."

Such answer made Beregond shake his head. "You think I'm joking, my friend. But, I assure you, these thoughts keep coming back to my mind whenever I'm on duty, for hours on end."

"Only then?" asked Faramir with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.

"All right, even more often!" admitted Beregond sheepishly. "And yet…" He stopped midway. He looked on the ground, not sure if he should carry on.

"What is amiss?" asked Faramir, concerned and all feelings of mirth ebbing away. "You are sure this is what you want, are you not?"

"Yes, but… will she have me?" Beregond finally managed to say in murmur, averting his eyes and turning crimson. 

There was silence for a few moments; then Faramir placed an arm over his shoulder and prodded him to look at him. 

"Have I ever told you that you worry too much?" he said kindly. "Think about it, my friend: she gave you that amber charm. Her eyes never leave when you talk to her and, moreover, she comes at the guards' posts whenever _you_ happen to be there."

"She just comes to give water to the other soldiers," Beregond said dejectedly.

"That is what she claims," Faramir said with a sly smirk. "However, she is actually sneaking looks at you. Yes, trust me on it; I watched her with my very eyes. And that is why I say that she will indeed have you. There is one problem though."

"What kind of problem?" exclaimed Beregond. 

"You did not ask her to be your wife yet."

The soldier couldn't help but laugh a bit, relieved. "Then I will talk to her first thing in the morning."

"No, second thing," corrected his friend. "You will have to meet me here before you see her."

"Why?" asked the soldier, not understanding.

"Because I will give you something for her," answered Faramir. "Do not ask me what it is! You will find out tomorrow." 

\------------------

Early the next morning and keeping his promise, Beregond hurried towards the Silver Tree once again, where he found Faramir waiting for him under its dried branches.

"Hello! And I thought _I_ came early!" exclaimed the soldier in surprise.

"I know you do not want to be late for your other matter," grinned the Steward's son. "Anyway, here it is. It was my mother's." And with no other word, he dropped a golden ring in Beregond's hand.

Beregond stared at the ring in wonder. It was the most beautiful piece of jewellery he had set his eyes upon. Though it wasn't heavily elaborated, its every little crevice was shining under the sunbeams, making it seem as though it was studded with small diamonds; and on it was placed with experienced craftsmanship a green stone, amazingly wrought to resemble a rose.

The soldier felt suddenly very ill at ease. "This is a lady's ring!" he faltered, holding the jewel quite awkwardly, like it was burning his hand. 

Faramir, however, pressed Beregond's fingers to close into a fist around it with a smile.

"It is merely a ring. My mother wore it at her wedding and now your beloved will wear it at hers."

"I don't know what I am supposed to say," Beregond said. "You already gave me the money needed to make up for the damages at the inn…"

"Which you paid back to me," Faramir reminded him. 

"But now this? It is too much!" 

"Then consider it as my gift for all these years you were my friend; that will make it only too little," insisted Faramir. "Now just say thank you and go find Almiel," he added half-teasing, half serious.

"But…" 

Faramir, however, just prodded him away. "I will make it an order, if I have to! Now go!"

In the end, Beregond ran off to the streets, crying his thanks to Faramir and hardly containing his excitement. In fact, so much was his hurry, that in less than a half hour he had reached "The Full Moon". 

The innkeeper was certainly surprised to see a panting soldier by the doorstep. He looked at him from head to toe curiously.

"Goodmornin'… Beregond, isn't it?" he asked. "Can I help you with somethin'?" 

Beregond nodded, unable to speak just yet. As soon as he had caught his breath, however, he explained things to the innkeeper. And the latter was quite pleased that someone wished for the girl's hand in marriage, because he cared for her and wanted to see her happy by a good man's side. He led Beregond to the upper floor, where Almiel resided, for she had no home of her own ever since her parents died.

"Here we are. Just open the door, lad," he said when they reached her room; then the innkeeper went down, letting the soldier be on his own.

Beregond did as he was told, though his heart was now drumming loudly in his ears for more reasons than the sprint he made from the Citadel. He stepped in, and his eyes were instantly fixed on her sitting form in a gaze that would soon be returned.

"Beregond? What are you doing here so early?" she asked in a surprised tone; yet her eyes didn't hide her joy seeing him as she rushed towards him for a strong embrace.

He, however, only stood still as though frozen, doing nothing else but stare at her. Whatever he meant to say to her simply stuck on his throat, forming a very familiar uncomfortable lump. 

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?" she asked, puzzled. 

She didn't get an answer. 

"At least say something!" she exclaimed nervously.

"Valar!" sighed Beregond, his hands caressing lovingly Almiel's face. "Forgive me." 

"What?" She was more puzzled than ever now.

Beregond smiled. He had finally found the courage he had been looking for. "I came here with the intention of saying every wonderful thing that has ever been uttered in this world and thus show you how much I care for you, but the only words that will come out are 'I love you'. I loved you ever since I laid my eyes upon you and I can't imagine living the rest of my life without you." 

His fist opened, revealing the sparkling ring. 

"Do you feel the same about me? Do you want me yours as I want you mine?"

Almiel's eyes had opened wider with every single word that Beregond spoke, and she was certainly awestruck when she saw the ring. All she did was look at him, clearly lost; until, to Beregond's delight, she extended her arm towards his open hand. 

She only pushed it gently back to him. "You can't give me this."

Beregond's world at that moment seemed to shatter in pieces. "You don't…?"

She smiled though. "I always lose things. I know that you will keep it safer than me till our wedding."

It took several moments for Beregond to realise what was Almiel really saying to him. Until, laughing joyously, he grabbed her in his arms and sealed their lips on a loving kiss. Almiel answered his affection, sharing her joy with him. 

On the same day, the soldier took her to meet the man he wished – and, more importantly, _could_ , according to the laws – marry them. At first, Almiel thought he meant the Steward himself (after all, only he and his sons had that kind of right); but she soon found out she was wrong. And she also discovered who was in fact the beggar she fed so often in the past. She tried to apologise for any instance that she might have been rude to Faramir, but the latter assured her that she never did anything wrong. And he, of course, accepted to perform the wedding ceremony gladly.

Thus it was that, in less than a month, Beregond was united with Almiel. Faramir blessed their union by the River Anduin, where the only witnesses were the sun and the trees. Once their vows were exchanged, the newly-wed couple resided in Beregond's home. And such was their love for each other, that it wasn't long before Almiel conceived.

\-----------------

During his married life, Beregond still went on duty at night and met Faramir. However, their meetings never lasted long now, for Beregond wanted to be at Almiel's side as she carried inside their child. And soon came the time when Beregond and Faramir's outings ceased altogether, since the Steward's son had taken up the position of Captain of Ithilien and he had to remain there, keeping the area safe from the Enemy. So the two friends finally parted, promising to each other that they would write of any tidings of importance to the other. Thus the days and the months flew by quickly, and Beregond remained always happy by his wife's side. 

One night, however, as Beregond and Almiel were sleeping, each of them tired with their own burdens, the guard felt his wife stirring, waking him from his dreams. He had settled back to sleep, when she woke him with her restlessness again. He had already declared in his mind that at the third time he would not open his eyes, when he heard Almiel whisper softly to his ear.

"Beregond?"

Beregond lay completely still with his eyes closed, pretending not to hear. But Almiel wouldn't let him off so easily. She shook him and whispered to him again:

"Husband? Are you awake?"

"Not if I can help it," he mumbled back, keeping his eyes stubbornly shut.

"Well, you can't. It's coming."

He turned to her with one eye half-open.

"What is coming?" he asked with a tinge of annoyance. Then both his eyes flashed open in realization and he sat up with a jolt. "The baby!?"

Almiel managed to nod yes before she let out a small moan of pain and held herself protectively.

"But… It's too early! It's been barely eight months!" Beregond faltered.

"Explain it to him when he comes out!" exclaimed Almiel painfully. 

Quickly and trying not to lose control of the situation, Beregond gently made her lie down on their bed again.

"I'll go get help," he reassured her, caressing her face with affection; then rushed to find Mauwin. 

Mauwin had also helped Isilme deliver Iorlas and him, so Beregond was certain that she could help Almiel too. He banged at her door quickly and, as soon as she came out, he told her what was happening, and while she was putting on a shawl over her shoulders and going toward his house, he ran to the Houses of Healing to find any other women that could offer their assistance. In just an hour, he had managed to find four other midwives that were now by Almiel's side. Letting them be, he waited outside the room, unable to stop himself from pacing back and forth in his anxiety.

However, as the time passed, his anxiety was to be replaced with worry. None of the midwives had come out yet to tell him about their progress and he didn't know what to make of it. Could it be that something was wrong? Something bad happened to the baby? Or even Almiel? He shuddered at such black thoughts of his and quickly reassured himself that everything was all right – it had to be.

So engrossed was he in such thoughts that he almost jumped when he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. He turned instantly, coming across a familiar face.

"Maldir? What are you doing here?" he cried in shock.

"I was at the Houses of Healing taking care of some old wounds of mine, when I heard the commotion you created back there. Upon asking, I was told your wife is giving birth earlier than due, and I felt I had to come."

"Thank you… But you could have knocked instead of frightening me like that," Beregond said.

"I _did_ knock – more than once! It was only when I didn't get any answer that I walked in and found you acting like a wild animal in a cage," pointed out the old soldier. "You didn't get any news yet, then?"

The young man shook his head solemnly. Maldir frowned at this and was about to speak, when Mauwin came out, followed by the other women, carrying what appeared to be a small bundle of white clothing. 

Beregond hurried at her impatiently to hear the news and only then did he notice what the small bundle actually was. He looked at the chubby little face amazed, scarcely believing that he was looking upon _his_ child. He extended a finger towards it and saw how a pair of small hands grasped it with tiny fingers of their own.

"You are blessed with a beautiful son. But I'm afraid his mother won't see him grow," said Mauwin choking down a sob.

These words cut through Beregond's heart like a knife. He took a few steps away, looking at her in confusion.

"What are you saying? Out with it, woman!" cried Maldir, voicing Beregond's thought.

Yet none of the women were able to hold their tears now. "She's… dead," Mauwin whispered in anguish.

Beregond stared at each and everyone in the room, feeling his head floating and his limbs almost giving way underneath him. He heard someone shouting repeatedly "No!". 

It was himself. 

Then, as though stung, he rushed inside their room to find Almiel's lifeless form lying on the bed.

And yet, she didn't seem dead. Her eyes were closed and her lips slightly parted, while a light rosy colour still clung to her cheeks. No, she wasn't dead, Mauwin was wrong. She was merely resting, Beregond reasoned. It was a difficult birth after all. And now she was simply sleeping, just as she would sleep every night after a trying day. Beregond half-smiled. He loved the way she slept, because all he had to do was give her a soft kiss to wake her up and see her smiling at him. 

Without thinking much else, his lips touched her own tenderly.

She didn't wake up. 

\------------------

Beregond opened his eyelids heavily once more and looked at the other side of the bed. That's what he had been doing the last couple of days. Or was it a week? Maybe even more? He honestly couldn't tell. All he did know was that it had to be night now, for it was dark and a lamp was the only light in the room. He closed his eyes, held them shut for a few moments and then opened them again, only to get, yet again, the same sight: an empty space. He extended a tired arm and felt the side of the bed. It _was_ empty, no mere trick of the eyes. He heard himself let out a quavering sigh and then he remained still again, his eyelids dropping themselves shut. He was feeling too exhausted to even weep anymore.

It was then that he heard a light knock at the door. He didn't even move a muscle toward it, his limbs feeling numb. Why didn't they let him be? The only thing he wanted now was to stay in his bed, where he could still sense her presence: they had no right to deny him _that_ at least. His mind wondered for an instant at that fateful day, though the memory was blurry. He remembered as in a dream staying by Almiel's body, holding it close to him until they took her to prepare her funeral; he clearly recalled his screaming and fighting; then nothingness. He had hold on to her so fiercely that he had to be knocked out to pull her away from him. 

Yet it seemed that it still wasn't enough for them: a woman came every day, holding a tray of food, and constantly tried to talk him into eating. At first he would tell her off, but lately he simply ignored her. That was what he planned to do now, as he heard the door creaking and footsteps behind him. He didn't even stop to wonder how these steps were heavier than his ears had got used to. 

"Put it with the rest of your trays and go away," he said tonelessly.

The steps stopped for a mere second, but they didn't turn back. They still moved at his direction until they came to the level of his bed. At that moment Beregond felt to his surprise a warm hand grasping his own as it still lay a few inches away from him. 

Only then did he look up - to encounter a cloak-covered face. Before he could say anything, the hood was removed and a pair of familiar eyes looked back at him sadly.

"You… here?" Beregond whispered incredulously.

Faramir nodded solemnly. "Yes. I only wish I could have come under better circumstances than this."

"You know about it? How?"

"Maldir told me. He sent me a letter telling me about Almiel's death and how you are letting yourself die as well. He begged me to come as quickly as possible before you wasted yourself away, and that I did, though my second-in-command was quite surprised when I told him that I would go away to report to my father – even more so when he found out I would go on my own." 

"Didn't anybody tell you then?" asked the soldier through glazing eyes. 

"Tell me what?" 

"I'm already dead. You're talking to a corpse!" answered Beregond. A grim, soulless sound resembling laughter came out of his lips.

"Stop it!" cried Faramir, backing away in shock. "This is not you talking, it is your grief." 

"But it's still true. When she died, I died too. I might as well finish what it's started."

"No!" exclaimed Faramir. "It does not have to be this way. She loved you so dearly that she even gave herself up so you could have the best possible gift: your son! Are you so willing to make her death meaningless? To leave him behind, the same way _your_ father did when he died?" 

Even afterwards, neither of them could understand how Beregond, who until then could barely move his eyes without some effort, found the strength to spring for Faramir's throat in the blink of an eye and push him against to the wall. However, it happened; and the captain was suddenly pinned powerless by a man whose face was heavily distorted by his terrible wrath.

"Don't you _dare_ mention my father in such a matter again, ever! Everybody knows he died to save _your_ father's sorry skin!"

"That is true," said Faramir calmly, his eyes not betraying any emotion of fear or anger. "But look what _you_ are dying for. Are you sure it is out of love? Or is it mere selfishness?" 

At this the soldier let out a loud cry and raised his fist to strike; yet he never hit Faramir. His fist simply brushed by Faramir's ear to hit the wall behind. The force of the impact was such that Beregond let go of the man, still shouting at the top of his lungs; then he let himself drop on his knees, cradling his bleeding hand against himself and his cries gradually changing to heartbreaking sobs. 

Faramir watched him for a few moments; then knelt beside him and drew him close, letting Beregond's head to rest against his chest.

"It hurts," said Beregond, his voice small, resembling a hurt child's. 

However, Faramir knew that his friend wasn't talking about the hand.

"I know," he said kindly, his own eyes welling up with unshed tears; and he remained still, holding his companion in a soothing embrace as the latter kept sobbing.

\----------------

The next morning found the two men sleeping: Beregond in his bed, where Faramir placed him as soon as the mourning man had started nodding off; while the captain slept on a chair nearby, so he would be close at hand if his friend needed anything.

It was the soldier who woke up first, feeling something stirring him off his dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes, trying to figure out what it was. He heard it again, more clearly. Finally understanding, he rose quietly from the bed in order not to disturb his friend's sleep, and walked out to find out what was troubling the baby.

His son was in the cradle, like Beregond expected him to be, still crying. Now Beregond knew that it wasn't lack of food or anything of that kind which could distress the baby so, since the woman that came at his home always took care of that. And so, not knowing what else to do, he picked him up and rocked him gently. To his amazement, the baby calmed down in an instant.

"So you just wanted company, little one! You missed me from our first meeting and wanted to see if I'm here?" he whispered at the baby with a small smile, receiving a light gargling sound for an answer. "You're right: I should be here."

"Now you understand what I was trying to say all along." 

Beregond turned. Faramir had apparently walked in and watched Beregond tending the baby, trying to see what he would do. Now, however, he had come at his side, clasping his friend's shoulder. "He needs your love, my friend - now more than ever. He managed to come to this world in spite of everything; I think he deserves a chance to become the man he is destined to be."

"I don't think I can help him," said the guard sadly.

"I _know_ you can," Faramir reassured him. "But, for starters, he needs a name."

Beregond only looked at the baby's eyes.

"He has one now: Bergil. That's what Almiel had suggested if we were to have a boy. It was her father's name."

"Bergil it is then," said Faramir, smiling with approval. "Now come! You should have something to eat after so many days of fasting."

"Not yet. There is still one more thing to be done."

Faramir stared at Beregond, puzzled.

"They performed her burial without me present," explained the guard. "I should go at her resting place at least and say farewell to her. I'll take Bergil with me; and you can come too, if you want."

Faramir accepted the invitation, and the two men walked out in the sunshine, welcoming the rise of the new day. 

TBC...


	7. The Storm Breaks Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

It was early in the morning and Beregond had just returned from one of his night shifts at the Citadel, when a nine-year-old boy rushed to his room eagerly. 

"Father, Maldir is outside the house and wants to speak with you!" 

"Oh?" said Beregond surprised. "Didn't he tell you what is it about?"

"No, he just said it was important."

Beregond let out a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck in thought.

"Very well then," he said in the end. "Send him in."

Bergil obediently went to his errand, and Beregond sat tiredly on a chair nearby, dearly hoping that whatever Maldir wanted would be quick, for his body demanded a rest. 

His heart sank a bit. If merely standing guard tired him, a trained soldier, so, he didn't dare think how exhausted Faramir must have been after days of fighting at Osgiliath. 

He momentarily closed his eyes in the hopes of resting them; and he replayed in his mind the events that had happened only a couple of hours ago. 

Beregond was waiting impatiently for dawn so that he could go home and get some sleep when he saw two men walking hurriedly the stairs up to the Citadel. The soldier had immediately recognised the forms of Boromir and Faramir, though their faces hardly betrayed their identities; the brothers were pale and worn out. 

Yet the one who Beregond felt truly sorry for was Faramir. His friend seemed only a mere ghost of himself, for his face was lean and haggard and white as a sheet. It took all of Beregond's will not to let an exclamation of shock to escape his lips. He looked slightly away, wishing not to arouse any suspicion. 

It didn't seem like anyone understood what Beregond tried to do, since everyone was more concerned about the presence of the Steward's sons within the walls of the city in time of War. Yet Faramir did notice him. In fact, before he disappeared behind the Citadel's gates and went into the Great Hall, he mouthed at Beregond's direction two hasty words.

_I know._

And that was all Beregond got to find out. All he could do was stay on guard as though nothing came to pass, yet he couldn't still his heart. What could it be that could have caused so much concern on the Steward's sons? 

"Here, father!" 

Beregond's eyes snapped open at Bergil's voice. There, before him, was his son, followed close behind by Maldir. Letting out a small inward groan, Beregond stood up respectively. 

"Well, my friend? What did you want to speak to me of?"

Surprisingly enough, Maldir was smiling.

"Me? Nothing all that important," he said. "The thing is that you once asked me if I could take Bergil and show him the City from the Citadel. Today seemed like a good day for that."

Bergil's face brightened happily.

"Oh, father, can I go? Maldir can tell me all kinds of tales about the place!" he said pleadingly.

Beregond was hardly paying attention to Bergil, however. He was frowning profusely, and he was ready to tell Maldir that he had never asked him anything of the sort. 

He immediately stopped himself. Why did he suddenly have the feeling that Maldir wanted for some reason to make sure he was alone in the house? He looked questioningly at Maldir, who only nodded slightly. Beregond had got his answer.

"Of course you can, my son," he said in the end, facing and smiling broadly at Bergil, "just try not to tire Maldir too much by running around the whole time, all right?"

"I promise!" Bergil assured him, and took Maldir's hand excitedly. 

Maldir smiled, obviously touched by the boy's exuberance, and smiled a bit at Beregond. "We'll be back in two hours," he said; and with that, both old soldier and boy walked out.

As soon as Mardil and Bergil had disappeared from view, Beregond sat again on the chair and waited, all feelings of fatigue forgotten. He immediately sprang up at the sound of a light knock at the back door and hurried to open. 

There, just as Beregond had expected it to be, stood Faramir. Beregond quickly welcomed him and beckoned him inside, then quickly pulled the drapes of the windows in case someone would see them. 

"You do realize that coming here in broad daylight isn't the wisest thing to do?" pointed out Beregond, as soon as he felt that all precaution was taken.

"I do. I still wanted to get away from the Citadel for a while and your house is the best haven for that," said Faramir, removing his cloak and pulling up a chair to sit down. 

Beregond looked at him, his worry obviously clear on his face, for Faramir smirked. 

"Do not worry, I was careful! I even brushed by your son and he did not notice me." A small pause. "Bergil has grown quite a lot. He is very tall for his age."

Beregond couldn't help but feel his heart swell with pride at the compliment. "He takes after his father in that." A sigh. "But he has his mother's face." 

Faramir locked his gaze on him. "You still miss her." 

"With all my heart," replied Beregond immediately. "Yet, Bergil manages to comfort me with his presence, bless him."

Faramir couldn't help but smile slightly at this. "You should see your face when you talk about him. It seems to light up with an inner glow." He bowed his head in regret. "If only other fathers had the love that _you_ have for your son."

Beregond's heart wrenched. He pulled up a chair as well and sat across his friend. Clasping his hand on his friend's shoulder he asked Faramir to look at him.

"Faramir, I know what you think and, frankly, I used to believe it too. But when Bergil came into my life, I realized that it's not possible for a parent _not_ to love his child." 

A bitter smile formed on Faramir's lips. "I know what you are trying to say here, my friend, and I thank you for it. I wish _I_ could believe it as well." He shook his head. "But I did not come here about my father." He clasped his own hand on Beregond's shoulder. "What I am to say to you now, you are to share it with no one."

Beregond nodded his acknowledgment. "I never betrayed your trust to start now. What is it?"

Yet Faramir still hesitated, thus showing to Beregond that he was in great turmoil. Deciding that impatience would not solve anything, Beregond simply waited until his curiosity was finally rewarded. 

"It happened in Osgiliath," Faramir started. "After we had been fighting the enemy again and again for hours on end, I grew so weary that it was with a great effort that I could make my limbs move. It was with relief that I welcomed the rise of the starry night, for indeed an opportunity had appeared at last to rest. Thus it was that, without losing too much time – and yawning shamelessly – I excused myself from Boromir and I retired to my tent, wishing nothing more than for sleep to come and claim me. 

"But I could not sleep. Unknown fears started nestling in my heart and troubling me greatly. When I finally managed to close my eyes for a while, the strangest of dreams came to me: I was out of my tent, all alone, watching towards the eastern sky and waiting for the rising of the sun. The dawn never appeared. Instead, everything simply grew darker until there was nothing to be seen but black. Then thunders started to crack; at first only a couple, yet they soon became so numerous that their loud crashes nearly deafened me. I knelt down, trembling out of sheer fright and expecting lightning to strike me dead at any moment. Suddenly, I felt warmth on my back. I looked up and lo! There was a pale light still shimmering at the western skies; and a voice sounded from that direction, as though calling to me: 

_Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

_in Imladris it dwells;_

_There shall be counsels taken_

_stronger than Morgul-spells._

_There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand,_

_for Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_and the Halfling forth shall stand._

"It was in that moment that I woke up, pouring with sweat and my heart beating in such frenzied pace that I felt that it would burst out of its place. But I only found myself in my tent, which was lighted up brightly by the morning sunlight.

"That same day we were suddenly attacked by Easterlings and they were not alone. I cannot tell what it was. All I know is that, as we were pushing our foes away from one of Osgiliath's many bridges, a sudden inhuman shriek was heard, which sent a chill into my heart. 

"I have been afraid a lot of times, but what I felt at that moment was nothing compared to anything I had ever felt before. It was absolute terror, Beregond." 

Faramir shuddered, as though he heard the shriek again. Beregond remained silent, waiting to hear the rest of the tale.

"What was worse," Faramir continued, " was that I was not the only one almost frightened out of his wits. I saw the men around me holding their breath, petrified, their eyes widening in indescribable horror. As for Boromir, a man I know he fears nothing, could not help but let out a soft: 'Valar save us!' 

"Our arms hung lifelessly at our sides, unable, no, _unwilling_ to wield the sword anymore. 

"Meanwhile, the Easterlings, accompanied by their precious allies, the Haradrim, took advantage of our hesitation and attacked with renewed strength and hatred, trying to force us away from the bridge.

"Suddenly the bridge gave way, sending us all to our deaths. I still do not know how my brother and I managed to swim to the other shore unharmed; yet, we did. We returned to our camp at dusk, still shaken to our very souls by what had happened. I felt so disturbed that, as soon as we reached the first tents, I collapsed on the ground, trembling violently. It was only because of Boromir's aid that I managed to rise again and walk to my tent. Seeing that I needed to calm myself, Boromir gave me a drink for my nerves and let me alone so I could sleep.

"That night I saw the same dream again. Only then I realised that this was no mere nightmare I was having, but it was a warning about a danger that was to come.

"I hurried to Boromir's tent and told him all about it. At first he disregarded it, considering it a trick of my tired mind. On the next night, however, he saw the dream as well and he could make neither head nor tail of it. Seeing there was no other option for us, we left people in charge to watch out for any trouble from the other side of Osgiliath, and we travelled back here to consult our father." 

"That was just a few hours ago," said Beregond. 

"Yes." 

"And what was your father's advice?" asked Beregond.

"He decided one of us two had to go to Rivendell – for Imladris is the Elven name for Rivendell - and meet Elrond Halfelven there. If anybody would be able to give answers to the dream would be definitely him. I offered to go to Rivendell gladly, since my knowledge of both the Elven tongue and the Elven ways would prove useful." 

"Indeed. So when will you go?" asked Beregond.

"I will not go."

Beregond looked at Faramir, stunned.

"My father wished to send somebody that would be able to represent the might of Gondor. So when Boromir made the same request, he chose him." 

"But Boromir's knowledge of the Elven lore is nothing compared to yours!"

"Tell me something I do not know already," said Faramir bitterly. He arose and started walking up and down in his frustration. "My father is a wise man, there is no question about that, but I am afraid this time he has made a terrible mistake; one that will affect even the fate of this City." He looked through the drapes outside the window. "What am I to do?" he murmured, lost in thought. 

Beregond arose as well, his eyes locked on the form of Faramir. What was he supposed to say to comfort him? What could anyone say?

In the end, he decided to speak through his heart. He walked up to Faramir, shouldering him.

"Faramir… It is not in my place to say whether he should have sent you or not, nor what good or evil will come out of sending Boromir; this is done already. What truly matters is what you will do now that these decisions were made and how your actions will benefit the city best. Just bear in mind that the fact that your father has taken heed of the visions and decided to seek answers is an encouraging thought, because, once this riddle is solved, we may know what kind of danger it is the dream warned you about. And then, we will be able to fight back."

Faramir didn't speak for many long moments. But when he finally faced Beregond, the latter was glad to see that the fire of determination sparkled at his friend's eyes once more. 

"Rightly said." Faramir answered. "My mind has been made up. While Boromir rides off to Rivendell, I will stay by my father's side, for he will need my services in the days to follow more than ever." He looked outside again, and suddenly he grabbed his cloak. "Maldir and Bergil are coming back. I must leave." 

Just as he was about to walk out the back door, he turned to Beregond with an expression of gratitude.

"Thank you, my friend. Please, remember what I said: You will tell no one of this talk!"

"Don't worry. I won't," Beregond assured him, and so waved Faramir goodbye. As he watched his friend go, he couldn't help thinking once more of what they said and being troubled by it. Yet he made certain that his behaviour was calm when Bergil rushed to his side.

\-----------------

The months went by slowly and quietly for Beregond. He hardly realised when summer turned to autumn or when autumn turned to winter; and he was certainly surprised when he noticed that spring came again, for the meadows beyond the walls of the city were covered with green patches of new grass sprouting. 

Yet, he couldn't enjoy the beauty of nature. The only thing that came into his mind as he was standing by the Citadel's walls on guard, were the hushed rumours that were on everyone's lips for years on end; rumours of a shadow awakening in the East and which finally turned out to be true. For the fires of Mordor burned stronger now that Sauron grew powerful once again, and the days dawning at Minas Tirith became darker. It was true that that could make any soldier's heart sink, yet Beregond had more reasons to fret. 

Though a year had already passed, there was no news of Boromir from Rivendell. 

Beregond sighed, and wondered how worried Faramir must be to hear no news of his brother. Unfortunately, for the past year, Beregond hadn't heard news of Faramir as often as he wished, and whenever he did, it was through Maldir. It couldn't be helped though. Faramir's duties had increased dramatically during this year, and his responsibilities didn't allow him to spend some carefree moments the soldier and his son. 

It was then that he jumped at the sound of a hunting horn. What made him wonder even more, however, was that it wasn't the sound of just any hunting horn.

It was the Horn of Gondor.

Beregond's gloved hand instantly reached for his sword, for everything within Beregond cried out to him that what he heard was a call to fight. But what was he to fight? He looked on his left and right, yet there was nothing out of the ordinary to be noticed. Even more importantly, a part of him tried to reason with him, telling him that only one who had the right to blow the Horn of Gondor was its keeper, the Steward's firstborn himself. The very person who was away!

Trying to compose himself, he looked in a seemingly casual manner to Meneldor, who was standing a few feet away from him, to see that he also was restless and looking around him, puzzled. Beregond now understood that what he heard wasn't his imagination; yet even if there was still some trace of doubt deep within his mind, it was soon to be dissolved when the sound of the Horn echoed through the air again. Beregond pricked his ears and prepared himself to dash forward the moment that he heard the Horn once more, for its call wasn't to be denied – no matter where it was heard from.

But there never came a third call. Thus there was nothing left for Beregond to do but resume with his duty, even though what came to pass troubled him greatly. He knew that the sound of the Hunting Horn was an ill omen, and he couldn't help but expect the worst of news at any moment. 

He never heard anything that day, nor the next day or the day after. In fact, everything seemed peaceful – or as peaceful as things could be with the Dark Lord's presence still lingering above the White City. And so Beregond's heart put aside the incident on the walls and he wasn't any more troubled by it.

That is, until the fourth day dawned. 

Everything had seemed quiet. The night had passed quietly and Beregond was watching the golden-red rays penetrating the grey sky. He welcomed the refreshing breeze on his face, and all he could think of was that his night shift would be soon over. His eyes drifted at the rooftops of the city, which were getting drenched by cleansing sunlight, and he couldn't help but smile at the beautiful sight that unfolded before him.

Just then, he noticed a figure climbing the stairs of the Citadel. It was Faramir, there was no doubt to Beregond's mind about that. Yet the soldier also noticed that Faramir was holding something in his hands; his gait was laboured and uncertain; his head was bowed; and water was dripping down his clothes.

"Beregond?"

Beregond turned at the soft call of his name, to see that it was Meneldor from his own post. He had apparently also seen Faramir, and now his eyes were asking silently the question that lingered in his mind. Should they leave their posts?

Beregond nodded at once; and, followed closely by Meneldor, they hurried to Faramir's side.

"My lord?" asked Meneldor, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," answered Faramir with an effort. His hands still held that something, but Beregond couldn't see what it was. "Pray, let me go to my quarters."

Beregond wondered at this. "Are you certain, my lord?" he asked, remembering to address his friend formally.

Faramir never answered back. He pulled himself free instead and continued his way to the doors of the citadel. Meneldor and Beregond watched him go, confused and saddened; but they knew that there wasn't much they could do, not while on duty. 

Soon enough, Borlas, Beregond's new relief, arrived. Beregond welcomed the change of shifts and he started going towards home, though it was with regret that he walked away. He wanted to know what it could be that had upset Faramir, and somehow offer his help. But how was he to do that when Faramir clearly didn't want to speak to anybody? 

He was about to go down the stairs, when a servant approached him. Keeping his voice low, the servant said that the Steward's son was asking for him, wishing to speak with him in private; and that he would be in his room, waiting for him. 

Beregond didn't have to be told twice; he walked hurriedly towards his friend's room and knocked at the door.

"Come," was the only reply that came from within.

Stilling his anxious heart, Beregond opened the door in a slow, formal manner, and said passively: "You wanted to see me, sir." As soon as the door creaked closed, however, his tone changed to concern. "What happened?"

"Boromir is dead." 

Beregond was stunned. "But how came this to be?" was all he faltered.

"I do not know," said Faramir, his eyes seeming to look into the void. "All I know is that last night I was standing by the river's shore, when suddenly I saw a strange boat riding the current to the sea. Mesmerised, I walked into the water to take a closer look at it and, to my wonder, the vessel slackened its pace and drifted toward me. At that moment the moon appeared out of the clouds and its light revealed who was inside: Boromir, seeming asleep, his head resting against his shield and his hands always holding his trustworthy sword. I cried to him but he did not listen; for his sleep, as I soon realized in horror, was the eternal one. I rushed to the boat to catch it, hoping in my grief that I could embrace him and kiss his brow one last time in farewell. 

"It was to no avail. The boat kept escaping my grasp. All I could do was watch amid my tears my brother's resting place vanish as suddenly as it had appeared, like some passing dream." He stopped as his voice became tearful, and immediately rested a trembling hand against his forehead, shielding himself thus to hide the tears that threatened to drop. It was many moments afterwards that Faramir managed to compose himself again, letting his hand drop and sighing tiredly. Beregond kept watching him, his heart wrenching to see that Faramir was now carrying the same burden of grief _he_ had to carry twice. He had dearly hoped Faramir had been more fortunate and had only to mourn his mother.

"He is dead, Beregond," Faramir said again, his voice nothing more than a hoarse murmur. "Never shall I look upon his like again except when death has claimed me as well." 

Surprisingly enough, Beregond caught himself shaking his head. 

"This can't be true!" he declared. "It was just what you said: a passing dream or a nightmare, call it what you will! And, knowing the Dark Lord's ways, _I_ can even call it sorcery!" 

"It is none of them," came the defeated answer; and Faramir finally pulled his other arm away to reveal what he held in his lap all along.

It was the Horn of Gondor, cloven in two.

"Ilúvatar…" breathed out Beregond, overwhelmed by shock.

Faramir didn't answer at once. His fingers simply traced the outline of the Horn. "It was an heirloom of my family for centuries untold, and now it is destroyed, never to sound again," he whispered in the end. "An ill omen indeed, Beregond. I am afraid the storm that I told you about so very long ago has finally broken out."

"So it would seem," replied the soldier feebly, the weight of such a revelation making him feel weak. "What are you to do now?"

"What _else_ is there to be done?" exclaimed Faramir. "I have to break the news to my father first, and then I will ask to be sent to Ithilien; the forces under Sauron's service use it as a passage to Mordor. We must make as much damage to them as possible and delay Sauron's preparations for his assault. For, my friend, you can be sure that he _will_ attack – sooner if we are not prepared and later if we prove a challenging opponent." He shook his head solemnly. "Alas for Boromir's death! The tidings that he could bring from Rivendell would be most useful at this hour!"

"And alas for us all!" said Beregond. "You were right Faramir. We _are_ caught in the middle of the storm!" 

"And we must fight it with whatever we can now," concluded the Steward's son. His eyes suddenly locked onto Beregond's. "If my father gives me permission to leave, I will go immediately; so we will not see each other for some time – if ever again." He took Beregond's hand in both his own, gripping it tightly. "Farewell Beregond, best of friends! May we see each other again on better days."

"I hope so. Stay safe, Faramir."

"I will."

TBC...


	8. The Heart Speaks The Strongest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

_And you stayed safe, if only for a little while._   

All of a sudden, Beregond checked his surroundings in wonder. How did he find himself walking up towards the citadel, fully armoured? But then realisation caught up with him: two nights and a day had passed ever since his memories surged his mind and made him almost oblivious to anything else.In fact, ifanyone askedhim what he had been doing during that time, Beregond would certainly not have been able to answer clearly. All he would be able to say was that, after his night shift ended, he returned home; ate a little something for breakfast, much to Bergil's relief; then sat for hours on end on his chair. He never caught himself falling asleep, though he did have a vague recollection of waking up at dusk. And all that was left for him to do, since no more sleep would come at him at night, was to lie down on his bed, gazing at the ceiling as he replayed in his mind's eye all the memories he had with Faramir – practically his whole life. And now he was going to his duty once again. 

After all, that was what was left for him to do. To carry on with his duty, even at thisdark hour. 

As Beregond was still walking, however, whispers reached his ears that fully caught his attention. He never stopped walking, yet he did his best to listen to the conversation of the group of citizens he was passing by. Yet what he heard made his blood boil in his veins and so he quickened his pace before he made the mistake of losing his temper. 

" _Faramir is dead already._ " He snorted at the statement as he repeated it, trying to keep his voice low despite his annoyance. "What do they know? They can't even hold their tongues when they're supposed to!" he hissed, disgusted. Did these people have so little faith on Faramir? Did they see so little of Faramir's strength of heart? The fighting spirit that resided within him? 

_Fools. All of them._

On the other hand though… were they indeed fools? Could he deny that Faramir's condition became worse with each passing day? That he would probably not survive this day?

All feelings of anger ebbed away to be replaced by the burden of sadness, making his legs feel like lead. It was with great difficulty that he walked up to his post. 

"Hello! Now that's a dreadful sight I'd rather be spared of this morning."

Beregond snapped his head up, surprised to hear Borlas's voice from so close. And though the grin with which he was welcomed made Beregond smile as well, that smile was forced.

"Do I look that awful then? I did shave, in case you haven't noticed," he said wryly.

"That's your only saving grace, I fear. Not that it helps matters much even at your best of days, just between you and me," said Borlas, winking. Yet it was clear that he was troubled, no matter how pleasant he tried to sound. His face became serious almost instantly and fixed his eyes on Beregond, concerned. "You didn't sleep at all last night?"

Beregond shook his head. "I didn't feel like it." 

"You're worried about the Captain?" asked then Borlas.

"What makes you say that?" exclaimed Beregond, startled at these words.

"Nothing in particular," replied Borlas, slightly baffled. "The whole city is worried. Now that Lord Denethor abandoned his throne in his grief so as to be with his son, the only thing that holds the place together is Prince Imrahil. Though he does his best, it's not enough to boost a soldier's morale against such an enemy as the one right outside the walls." He corrected the strap of his helmet nervously. "And, if it must be said, even _I_ am worried. I feel that if the Captain recovered then things would start to look up."

"Indeed," said Beregond with a sigh. He unsheathed his sword in salute. "I'll see you at dusk, Borlas."

"Yes, you will," said the fellow soldier, saluting as well; then started walking away. Suddenly he stopped, as though remembering something, and turned to Beregond again, smiling teasingly. "And… please try not to sleep in the meantime!" And with that, he finally departed. 

Beregond took up his position on the post and stood attention, like he always did. Yet he wished with all his heart to be anywhere else but there at this time of day; for he could clearly see the smoke that rose at the outer walls of the city, and he could guess what was happening there. His hands clenched in fists in his frustration and involuntarily he saw in his mind's eye the city burned to the ground; siege engines destroying everything in their path; every last citizen murdered; and he saw himself and the rest of the guards of the citadel dashing against Orcs, Haradrim and Easterlings, trying to defend the last building standing – a small company against an entire army.

He closed his eyes momentarily as though an orkish sword really did run through him; then shuddered involuntarily. 

If only Faramir were well enough! Beregond was certain that his friend would be able to encourage everyone with his presence alone and then, just maybe, there would be a chance for victory.

Immediately Beregond bowed his head and kicked an invisible stone. He was hoping for too much.

"Are you sure of this?" said suddenly an unfamiliar voice behind him.

"I carried Faramir's body myself beyond the Closed Door. Now Lord Denethor is sitting inside the chambers and asked me to bring firewood."

Beregond turned discreetly and watched the two servants walking by him, hardly believing what he was hearing. Were they really referring to the door that led to the chambers of the dead Kings and Stewards of Gondor – and their kin? 

_Then Faramir…_

No, he didn't dare to think the unthinkable. There had to be some other explanation! He opened his mouth to call the servants and ask them what has been happening, but they were already gone. He quickly looked around for anyone else that might be nearby, yet it was to no avail. Beregond was alone. Just when he was about to swear under his breath, he caught sight of a young boy hurrying down the corridor. He waved and called, only to see that it wasn't a small boy that approached him after all. 

"Master Peregrin!" cried Beregond in surprise. "Where are you off to? Shouldn't you be with Lord Denethor?"

"No, he dismissed me," said Pippin, trying to catch his breath. "Now I have to find Gandalf!"

"As you wish, I won't stop you," Beregond said, for he had seen the urgency in the Halfling's eyes. "But, please, tell me this. Where has my Lord gone? I've only just arrived, yet I heard some people say he has passed the Closed Door, followed by men carrying his son's body!"

"Yes, he has gone to the Silent Street!"

Beregond felt his heart numbing; then shattering to pieces along with his hopes. 

_The Silent Street: the path that led to the chambers of the dead_. 

Then it was true. 

He bowed his head, trying to hide from the Halfling the tears that were ready to flow from his eyes, and murmured: "They said he was dying… and now he's dead."

"No! Not yet!" cried Pippin.

Beregond looked at Pippin incredulously in shock and listened to the Hobbit's narrative of what came to pass at the last few hours: Lord Denethor's talk of doom and fire, and his wish to go to the Chambers with his son, to be burned along with him while the latter still breathed. 

"He has fallen before the City has," concluded the Hobbit, "and I fear he has become dangerous!"

"Then you have to go and tell Gandalf! And quickly!"

"I know! But, Beregond, I beg of you, you have to run too! Stop Lord Denethor! I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen!" 

"No, I can't!" said Beregond, shaking his head with regret. "I'm not supposed to leave this post unless the Steward gives the order to do so."

"Your Steward is in no condition to order you anything!" exclaimed Pippin angrily. "Are you going to stand here expecting orders from a madman while Faramir's life might be at stake?" And before the soldier had any time to answer, he had already stormed away and was running down the stairs. 

Beregond bit his lip, and looked back to where the Closed Door was; then in the direction Pippin had left. What was he expected to believe? Was Faramir really in that kind of danger? No, Beregond's mind reasoned. After all, why would Lord Denethor dare do that to his son, especially after realising how much he cared for him? 

On the other hand, Beregond knew only too well how blind a grief-stricken man could prove. Didn't _he_ stop troubling about himself or others when he lost his own loved ones? If it hadn't been for Faramir, he would have certainly killed himself, without ever realising that the bravest thing to do wasn't to die – it was to keep on living. 

Yet what of Lord Denethor? What more reasons did he have to live? His wife and Boromir were already dead; Faramir was at death's door; Sauron's forces placed Minas Tirith under siege and the White City wasn't strong enough to hold them back much longer; and no one was there to help him – or rather, Denethor would have none by his side. Death seemed such an easy way out, such a blissful release.

With that thought, Beregond took a hesitant step towards the Closed Door.

He stopped himself at once. What if Lord Denethor didn't plan to go through with that folly after all? Though Pippin said Faramir might be in danger, nothing was for certain. How would it be regarded if Beregond suddenly left his post, acting in this irrational way because he preferred to follow a Halfling's suggestion rather the City's laws or the Steward's wishes? He wouldn't simply be punished, for he wasn't a boy of sixteen anymore. He would be charged with treason, rightfully for that matter, and there was only one penalty for that. 

Exile. 

His heart missed a beat as he thought that he would have to spend the rest of his days wandering like a wild beast. There would be with no welcoming home for him, for everyone would know of his treason; his only refuge would be the loneliness of the forests and the darkness of the caves. Worse still, Bergil would have to follow him too, for he would be considered the traitor's son. 

This was not the fate he wished for his son!

He bowed his head in frustration, pleading the Valar to help him do the right thing. 

But what _was_ the right thing?!

_The right thing is different in every person, and it resides in your mind and your heart. **They** are your best guides._

Beregond froze. He remembered those words. Maldir had said them to him, long ago. 

_Even if it means I will have to oppose those I'm to obey as a soldier?_ he heard himself asking again, as he recalled that time.

_Only if it means that you will have to obey at the expense of your conscience and your soul. Those are in your keeping alone. For a soldier, like every mortal, does not answer to kings or stewards in the end; but to something far more powerful and wise._

Beregond's eyes fell on his brooch, clasped on his chest and shining brightly as the sunbeams of the rising sun fell on it. That small thing had brought him and Faramir together, binding the one with the other in moments of joy and sadness; moments of courage and fear; moments of a lifetime… like brothers.

"Brothers…" he murmured, echoing his last thought. 

He looked up, finally knowing what he should do. Leaving the post would mean betraying the City at a time when loyalty was much needed; but if he stayed, he would betray Faramir and his own heart – and he would not be able to live with that. 

With that thought in mind, he unsheathed and finally hurried toward the Door, praying that he wouldn't be too late. As he still ran, he couldn't help thinking that he was probably making the greatest mistake of his life; but he was willing to suffer whatever was in store for him if it meant knowing that his Captain would be safe. 

He just hoped that Bergil would understand this, if only in due time.

TBC...


	9. Fear In The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

Beregond stood guard by the threshold of the room where Faramir was now resting and healing. He was glad Gandalf trusted him with that duty, and he did his best to focus on it. Still, he couldn't help but prick up his ears once in a while to hear Faramir's relaxed breathing, or even dare a peek inside the room whenever he sensed Faramir shifting on his bed, to make certain that everything was all right. He was in a way assuring himself that his friend was alive. After all, until two days ago it had seemed that Faramir would die after all, in spite of the healers' efforts, and Beregond had merely postponed the inevitable when he stood up to Lord Denethor. 

It was then that the miracle happened. A strange, cloaked man, who accompanied Gandalf and Pippin, managed to heal Faramir with his wondrous herb. Beregond wished to find that man and thank him from the bottom of his heart, yet he knew it wasn't meant to be. The man had disappeared just as silently as he had appeared, so no one knew what had become of him nor anyone had caught a glimpse of his face to give Beregond a description of him. Besides, Beregond had now other troubles to face. All the warriors that could still fight were to follow the Captains of the West and march East towards the Black Gate, and he was one of them, despite the charges laid against him. 

Beregond smiled grimly as he realized that death awaited him in every corner. If he didn't get killed in the field of battle, he would certainly die by the sword of his executioner. 

_A fair trade,_ he thought. Though he did it to save Faramir, the death of three of their own people by his hand was a heavy crime and not even exile was enough punishment for it. 

He once more turned and looked at Faramir; he was still sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Beregond noted how the sleeping man's face, now having its natural hue back, revealed nothing but calmness, and that sight was enough to make him shrug off all his dark thoughts. All he could think of is wonder to what pleasant dreams his friend had strayed off.

"Oi! Beregond! Are you ready to--" 

Beregond jumped to hear Pippin's voice so close to him, and quickly shushed the Halfling. 

_He's sleeping!_ he mouthed at him, pointing at the direction of Faramir. 

Pippin instantly bit his lip. "My apologies," he whispered in embarrassment. 

"That's all right," Beregond whispered back, waving his hand. "I'm to blame as much as you, I wasn't paying attention on my duty." He felt himself turning crimson-faced at what he had allowed to happen. "Let us hope he's sleeping too heavily to notice." 

However, a shifting sound from the direction of the bed proved them otherwise. "It seems you do not know me all that well as I was led to believe, my friend." 

Both Beregond and Pippin turned at the direction of Faramir, who was now smiling at them. And the moment that he tried to push himself to a sitting position, Beregond had rushed to his side and offered his arm for support. 

"Thank you," Faramir murmured kindly. "Well, good morning, Master Peregrin," he said then in greeting, "or is it afternoon? I fear I lost all sense of time."

"It is morning indeed, sire," replied the Hobbit as he came into the room as well. "Back home I would be having my elevenses at this time," he added, unable to hide his nostalgia.

"I take it you are hungry then?" deduced Faramir good-humouredly. "Tell the warden to give you something to eat; and tell him also to bring some food here as well, I feel famished." 

Pippin's face beamed up instantly at the prospect of a nice meal and he trotted away as soon as he had bid both the Steward and Beregond farewell. The two men watched the little one go, smiling at his eagerness. 

"I'm glad to see your appetite has returned," said then Beregond, gladdened to finally see Faramir awake. "May _I_ take it you're feeling better?" 

"You may. I have not felt so well in a long time actually," declared Faramir. He took a deep a breath of fresh air, and closed his eyes dreamily to savour its fragrance.

Beregond eyed him teasingly. "That's good to know. Although I'm afraid that's not enough for me if you want to get out of bed. Gandalf said that you're to stay here as much as possible."

"Am I to assume then you will see to it that his instructions are carried out?" 

"Indeed. To a tee." 

"Faithful and obedient as always!" laughed Faramir. "But, just between you and me, I doubt my father will be all that pleased when he hears I'm mothered by you, of all people!"

Beregond only closed his eyes and bowed his head. 

"Beregond, what is it?" 

Faramir had registered the silence and he was feeling concerned, the soldier could sense it. Yet how could he tell him that his father…? 

"Nothing, my lord. Nothing that you cannot know about later." He winced at how awkward that sentence sounded. 

"This is not you!" exclaimed Faramir. "You would never answer me in such an evasive way if something _wasn't_ wrong. And you certainly wouldn't have called me "my lord" either!" 

"Faramir, please!" He quickly looked at the other direction. "I was asked not to tell you anything!"

"Then there is something wrong!" A small pause. "Something has happened to father, has it not?"

Only then did Beregond turned to his friend again. "Maybe." He looked at his friend pleadingly. "Don't ask me more," he said softly. 

Faramir wouldn't have it, however. He took Beregond's hands in his own and locked his eyes on his friend's. 

"Beregond, I implore you, in the name of our friendship, tell me what happened. I need to know." 

Beregond remained silent for many long moments, indecisive. He opened his mouth many times to speak, only to shut it again. Until, in a weak breath, he whispered hoarsely:

"Denethor is dead." 

"Beregond!" cried a voice in horror from the direction of the threshold. 

It was Pippin, returning with a tray of food, wishing to do these honours himself for Faramir. 

"How could you?" the Hobbit exclaimed, putting the tray of food angrily on the table. "Gandalf told us not to say anything yet!"

"Now, later… do you think timing would make too much of a difference? There would still be grief!" Beregond said to Pippin curtly. He arose in an annoyed manner, walked up to the window, and remained there, looking out in silence. 

"Is it true?"

Beregond's heart wrenched at how painfully sad those three words sounded from his friend's lips, and so he turned again, all feelings of anger vanishing. 

Pippin must have felt the same way, for it was he that he answered, his expression saddened as well. "It is, sire."

"How did he die?"

Beregond gave a discreet signal to Pippin not to speak, deciding to take matters from there.

"There will be time to learn of that by others, my lord. What you need to know now is that he died realising that he loved you dearly."

Faramir only closed his eyes and nodded, taking in Beregond's words.

It was at that moment that Maldir appeared as well and, after saluting Faramir, he turned to the other two in the room.

"Lad, Master Halfling, we have to leave."

Pippin nodded his acknowledgement and walked out. However, the Steward looked up and he looked at each soldier in wonder.

"Leave for where? Are there more grievous tidings then?"

Maldir looked at Faramir, surprised; then turned to Beregond, giving him a stern look. "What did you tell him?"

Beregond returned the look without flinching. "That he is the new Steward… Nothing more, nothing less," he said, emphasising the last words.

The old soldier sighed. "Gandalf told you not to say anything." It must have been obvious that Beregond was about to argue anew about this though, for he quickly added: "Well, the damage is done. There is no point in discussing it anymore." He turned to Faramir. 

"I fear that there are indeed some tidings, yet not so grievous. I will leave the two of you alone for a while to talk." He stepped close to Beregond and whispered to his ear: "You have five minutes. Be careful what you say this time." And with that, he walked out.

Faramir turned to Beregond, looking at him questioningly. "Well?"

Beregond didn't speak for a moment or two, trying to put his thoughts in order; then heaved a sigh. "All soldiers are to leave Minas Tirith, by Gandalf's orders. We are to march against Sauron one last time, and face him outside the Black Gate of the Morannon." 

Faramir gasped, clearly not expecting to hear something like this. "But Sauron's forces are massive! Is there a chance of victory then?"

Beregond smirked. "Truthfully? No. And I think Gandalf is aware of that, too."

"This does not make any sense!" Faramir exclaimed. "Gandalf would never have suggested such a suicidal mission and waste so many lives in this way unless he had hope in something!"

"If he has, I do not know what it could be," answered Beregond solemnly.

Suddenly, Faramir's face shone with what it seemed realisation. "Maybe not you, my friend… but _I_ do." He looked out the window, into the East, and suddenly whispered, "Two little Hobbits."

"What?" Beregond didn't understand what Faramir said. 

Faramir only waved his hand. "Do not mind me. I was only thinking aloud. Will you also march to the gate?"

_So we come to it at last,_ thought Beregond. "Yes. And that is why I wish to ask you a favour, in the name of our friendship."

"What is it?"

It was then that Beregond walked up to his friend and knelt down, bowing low. That was something that Faramir didn't approve at all, for he grasped Beregond's shoulders to make him stand up again.

"Steward or not, you are my _friend_ ," he said. "If you want to ask of me something, do not go through that protocol."

But Beregond wouldn't have it. He didn't intend to. "It has to be done this way."

"Beregond, I am not comfortable with this. Do you not understand?" Faramir exclaimed.

"I do!" Beregond cried exasperatingly, "But I cannot take any chances!" 

Faramir froze, looking at his friend in wonder. 

"Faramir," the soldier continued then, softening his tone. "If it weren't important, I wouldn't go through with it. You understand _that_ , don't you?" he said, his eyes locking on his friend's. _Please, understand._

Faramir must have sensed Beregond's silent plea as they still looked into each other's eyes, because his next words were: "Go on." 

Beregond nodded, and bowed again. "I beg of the Steward of Gondor to promise me that, should I die, my son will be always under his protection."

"You have the Steward's oath," answered Faramir in the end. 

A breath that he never realised that he had been holding escaped Beregond's lips. Bergil would be safe, whether he died at the battlefield or not. No one would accuse him as the traitor's son, and no one would be able to harm him because of it. After all, a Steward's word couldn't be denied by any man except for the king himself; that was the law.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice coming out raw with emotion; then arose. "Farewell, best of friends." He was about to walk out, when Faramir grabbed his arm and stopped him. 

"What are you afraid of? What makes you act so irrationally?" He was eyeing Beregond worriedly now. "Do not tell me it is the battle, because I know you will be lying."

The soldier caught himself faltering as he tried to answer. "No, not the battle."

"What then?"

Beregond faced Faramir, trying to stare his fear in the eye. "Do you remember what you told me when we first met? That no one's really dead as long as they're remembered with love?"

Faramir looked at Beregond closely. "What are you trying to say?"

A sad smile tugged Beregond's lips. 

"I fear I won't be remembered with love. _That_ will truly kill me." 

And he walked out.

TBC... 


	10. The Traitor Is Judged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir lies in what everybody believes to be his death-bed, stricken by the Black Breath. Grief stricken by the Captain's condition, Beregond remembers his own life and the friendship he shared with the Steward's son. Set in Minas Tirith, during the War of the Ring, although there's plenty of flashback as well. Genre: Drama/ Angst/ Action. AU because of several changes done for dramatic purposes.

Faramir spent the next couple of days in the Houses of Healing, Beregond's words echoing in his mind and still troubling him; for he couldn't understand what his friend's parting words truly meant. Who would not wish to remember him with love?

The answer to his question came when he conversed with Míriel, one of the healers, who was changing at that moment bandages on Faramir's arm.

"You are fortunate, my lord," she commented carelessly. "There are no burn marks left in you."

"Burn marks?" Faramir asked, surprised. "Why would there be any?"

Míriel certainly didn't expect that answer. She quickly averted her eyes and continued with her work. "Remember, my lord, you must not move your arm too much and…"

Faramir gripped her hand and prodded her to look at him. "Why would there be any burn marks?" he asked again slowly. 

"My lord, I…" started Míriel, faltering. "It is not my place to…"

"I am _making_ it your place." Faramir felt truly exasperated now. "Ever since I woke up, everyone has been keeping secrets from me. Only _one_ dared to tell me directly that my father is dead, and now I learn that I should have burn marks on me. What am I not told?"

Seeing no other option, Míriel told Faramir everything that she had heard. Wringing her hands nervously, she told him how his father went mad and attempted to kill himself by placing himself and him, his then ailing son, in the midst of a pyre; how he would have succeeded if Gandalf hadn't arrived to stop him at the last moment; and how Denethor finally met his end.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she concluded sadly. "I didn't want to be the one to tell you about your father."

Faramir sighed. "It was the palantír that proved his downfall. In his attempt to find answers and thus protect the city, he only got madness." He truly felt for his father at that moment.

"Your father wasn't the only one maddened that day, my lord," Míriel said then. "Everyone obeyed your father's commands without question even though it could mean your death."

"They were following orders. No one is expected to do otherwise, especially in times of war," Faramir reasoned.

"I understand," Míriel said softly. "Yet what if one disobeys orders to do good?"

Faramir sighed. "Ethically speaking, he would do well. But, military speaking, he would do something that could put his fellow soldiers at risk. Therefore, punishment would be necessary."

Míriel seemed for a moment indecisive and then, after looking around to make sure no one would hear her, she leaned closer. "I didn't mention anything before because I'm not certain how much of it is true. However, rumour has it that perhaps Gandalf would not have been able to save you if it weren't for a soldier who fought back the people who were to set fire on you. They say he placed himself between the door and them, not allowing them to come any closer; and that he was even forced to kill a couple of them when they dared to attack him." Míriel sighed. "And it is said that the mob hated him more for it. They called him a traitor, an abomination of the city, and that he only deserved death for what he did; that it was fortunate his wife wasn't alive to witness her husband's betrayal, or she would have certainly had taken her own life in shame. But, my lord… he was trying to put an end in that madness. Should he be punished for that?"

Faramir wasn't paying much attention any more. As a terrible suspicion formed in his mind, he felt his throat drying and he swallowed hard. "That soldier… Did you manage to catch a name?"

Míriel nodded. "They say his name was Beregond, son of Baranor."

Silence followed.

"Thank you. You may go now," Faramir said weakly to Míriel, who left at once, letting him be. Faramir rested his head against the chair, for he felt dizzy at the revelation. Everything finally made sense now: Beregond's strange behaviour; his anxiety about Bergil's safety; his sadness; his fear. And all Faramir could do was shake his head sadly.

_My friend… how could you worry so? You disobeyed and you will have to be punished, yes; but to be afraid of being hated?_ He closed his eyes. _He was my father and his death aches my heart; yet he was ready to kill me. I cannot hate you for standing up to him. Did you think I would not be able to understand that? Or your son? Anyone else?_

Feeling his heart sinking, he arose and walked to the balcony to see the horizon on the East. 

_You had better return alive, Beregond; for there are a lot of things that I have to make **you** understand_ , he thought, determined.

Yet what kind of hope was there for anyone to return from the Morannon? 

In the hopes of ridding those dark thoughts, Faramir went outside to the garden. There it was that he met Éowyn, the fair shieldmaiden of Rohan, and as he looked upon her beauty he felt his spirits lifted. In turn, he saved her from her own despair, and thus it was that they came to love each other.

\-------------

To the surprise of all, the army returned victorious. For Gandalf's hopes had come true: the Ringbearer succeeded in his quest and Sauron was overthrown at last. The free people of Middle-Earth rejoiced at the happy days that were to follow, for they knew the shadow would never return to threaten them. The people of Gondor, however, had one more reason to celebrate; they had once more a king, who claimed what was rightfully his after he had successfully confronted Sauron. Faramir presented him to the citizens of Minas Tirith and, upon taking up his duties, the man proved kind and just and thus earned the people's approval. 

Beregond never witnessed those days though. During that time, he was held at his home, awaiting his judgement. And there he witnessed the strength of his son's heart, for the boy would feel nothing but admiration for his father after what he did; and Faramir's kindness, for he had assured him that, in his heart, Beregond was innocent. That brought a smile on the soldier's face and gave him courage to face the trial. 

Yet, when the day of the trial finally arrived and Beregond found himself walking the aisle up to the king's throne, his heart drummed loudly in his ears. It was true that there was no surprise as to what fate awaited him, yet Beregond simply couldn't help it. After all, a man who's not afraid to die is nothing but a fool. 

As he walked, he managed to see in the crowd the faces of Maldir, Borlas and Meneldor, along with other soldiers whom he had come to consider friends from their training days, as well as Iorlas. To Beregond's relief, he saw no resentment in their eyes, but support and understanding. Finally he walked up the stairs to bring himself before the king, and stood in attention. There he also caught sight of Faramir, and beside him stood a lady, her hair golden like the bright sun in the sky. Beregond immediately recognised her as the Lady Éowyn, the maiden Faramir offered his heart to. 

There it was that he waited for Lord Elessar, whom others knew as Aragorn, to speak; and as he waited, time seemed to have crawled to a standstill. 

"Beregond, son of Baranor," started the king, "you have been accused of treachery for leaving your post without the order of the late Steward or the Captain, as well as the murder of three of your own people: the porter at the Closed Door and also two men in the Hallows, a most sacred place. You have spilt the blood of your own people and you know that the penalty for this is death. Kneel to hear your doom, soldier."

Beregond did just that, and now it was with a great effort that he could control the frenzied beating of his heart.

"Know also that, because of your bravery to stand up to the maddened Steward, his son's life was saved. Because of this, it has been decided that your life should be spared. You and your son are commanded to leave Minas Tirith in two weeks time at the latest." 

Beregond felt like all his blood was drained from him at that very moment. He swayed a bit, yet he fought hard not to abandon himself to the nausea that seized him. Through the corner of his eye, he noticed Faramir taking a worried step forward. Was it so obvious that he was ready to fall into a swoon then?

Yet it was proved that Lord Elessar was far from finished.

"For indeed this has to be done, if you are to take up your duties as the First Captain of Ithilien. And your first task there will be to make all the proper arrangements for the arrival of Lord Faramir, prince of that fair land. It is there that you will dwell for the remainder of your days, serving the man for whom you risked everything to save - your friend." 

Lord Elessar uttered the last words so quietly that only Beregond heard him. The soldier looked up at the king, his eyes opening wider, and suddenly, Beregond realised that he wasn't just looking at the King of Gondor. He was also looking at the mysterious man who healed Faramir, and someone who had last seen as an adolescent: Thorongil. 

Grateful and knowing that the city couldn't be placed in better hands, Beregond kissed Elessar's hand in respect. And, as he walked away, his eyes met Faramir's, who smiled at him broadly. The two friends didn't have to hide behind excuses or guises anymore.

\--------------

Faramir went to see Beregond again the day that he would leave Minas Tirith. The newly appointed Captain of Ithilien was certainly glad to see his lord, for he quickly beckoned him inside and bade him to sit. As Faramir did so, he noticed the bundle of things that were lying by the door.

"Are you ready to set out then?" he asked.

"All ready," replied Beregond, smiling. "Or will be as soon as Bergil comes back. He went to say goodbye to his friends. He will miss them in his new home."

"I understand. But he will like Ithilien, I am sure of it," Faramir assured Beregond.

"I know," the soldier said. "Yet a part of me wishes we could stay here. This place is full of memory."

Faramir's heart warmed as he recalled all the memories he shared with Beregond. "We had quite a life together here, did we not?"

Beregond nodded. "Those memories will be the closest in my heart."

"You should remember that this is not the end though," Faramir reminded him. "We still have a long life ahead of us, and we will have plenty more memories to share."

"Except one," said Beregond with a sigh. "I'm sorry I won't be at your wedding."

The Steward, however, would hear none of it.

"The King's orders are not to be denied. You have to leave."

"I'm aware of that. Still, allow me to give you something for Lady Éowyn."

Faramir watched his companion go into the other room and reappear after a few moments. 

"I held on to this, wishing a part of Almiel to be with me still. Now I know she would like you to have it back." With a swift movement, Beregond placed in Faramir's hand a golden ring. Faramir recognised it at once: it was his mother's ring.

"This was a gift," he remarked at a loss.

"Yes, it was; but this gift will shine all the brighter on your wife's hand than locked in a chest. Please, accept it."

"I will," said the Steward, touched by Beregond's thoughtfulness, and clasped his companion's shoulder fondly.

"I have been many things in my life, but the best thing for me was to be your friend."

"And I'll always be _your_ friend."

"I know."

They embraced, grateful to have each other all these years, and then they parted –only to be reunited again in Ithilien.

**The End.**


End file.
